


Simulation Theory

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, If you not even low-key want about 100k words of pining this is the story for you, Matrix AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 57,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5811433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard learns his perceived reality is merely a simulation, and is thrown into a new role with similar tasks, but much higher stakes if he fails to follow through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I've decided to not put specific warnings before chapters, because I mean, when you're reading a book you don't get warnings there either, but if anyone wants to message me on tumblr at insanityrule.tumblr.com I will answer, I just ask that you don't spoil it for others.
> 
> And I'm also there if you want to chat.

Realistically, there's no reason to be so suspicious of a streetlamp, but Richard's been told before that he's _paranoid_ and _overreacting_ and _probably should sleep it's been two days and it's starting to make him see things._ However, this is different, even if the only reason is that he _has_ been sleeping on a semi-regular basis.

 

Something is wrong with their streetlight.

 

Well, something is probably wrong with the  _world_ but the streetlight is his current focal point, given the proximity and it being the only real evidence he currently has.

 

Normally Richard would like to claim he's a man of logic and reason; years of programming and concrete logical thought have given him a competitive edge to his critical thinking skills, but nothing in his few college classes and general life experience have ever really covered the concepts currently dominating his theory, and it's either a sign that something is genuinely wrong or he's finally lost his mind and should let Jared drive him to the nearest mental health facility to get himself some professional help.

 

He's taken to sitting on the roof for some privacy and a better vantage point, legal pad full of half-legible scrawls and unfinished statistic calculations. Thirty-seven nights in a row, he's watched his atomic clock and the streetlight, and every night for those 5.29 (terrible rounding but he's trying to save paper space) weeks it's flickered at exactly the same time, 10:37 pm.

 

At first, he thought it was nerves finally getting the better of him; he's had issues with vision in the past and his anxiety hasn't been great ever since his removal as CEO, but after work  doesn't self-destruct and he not only has a job but a secure job with an alright salary, his anxiety settle s to a dull, barely noticeable buzz in the back of his mind. And the flickering continued.

 

For the first week after he accepted that his eyes and brain weren't failing him he didn't note the time, assuming it was at random intervals during the night, a normal surge of power in an overpopulated and tech-heavy area of Silicon Valley.

 

But on a whim, nearly halfway through the second week of nightly flickers, Richard look s at his watch. 10:37 pm. A fairly unremarkable time.

 

The next night, he looked again, 10:37.

 

And the next, 10:37.

 

Three nights  is an anomaly, but not impossible.

 

After a full week he started dragging out his old statistics textbook. He'd failed the class, but not because of the math, and after a  couple hours of refreshing, he's staring down at a paper  suggesting that he should not be seeing what he's seeing every night.

 

And now, present day, up on the roof, he's hoping that the light won't flicker. He's redone his calculations because  _someone_ keeps throwing away his old legal pads (Jared, no one else would bother to clean the communal space of the house, and when Richard finds him he's going to have to have a conversation with him about personal property.) and if the light flickers again he's worried he's going to have an aneurism.

 

Because, really, it was already terrifying after two weeks, five and a half is devastating his mental state.

 

At 10:37 pm, the light flickers again, and Richard sighs as the coil of anxiety tightens just a fraction more around his throat.

 

-

 

“Hey um, Bighead, got a question,” Richard sputters into his cellphone, breathing probably way more frantic than he'd like, but maybe that'll get the urgency across.

 

“You okay dude?” Damn it, he doesn't have time for people to fuss over him right now.

 

“Yeah, fine, _totally_ fine,” he takes a breath and curls up on the bathmat, not fine _at all_ but he needs to hurry if Bighead's going to get here before 10:37. “Just, you know, been busy.”

 

“With work? Dude you don't have to ask we can like, do something fun or whatever to help you relax.”

 

“No, no not… work's fine it's...” his vision blacks out a bit but he forces out the words “world broken” before dropping his phone and covering his head with his arms.

 

Somebody knocks on the bathroom, mumbled words, he maybe mumbles back but he can't remember, and long (definitely not Bighead's) arms pull him up off the floor long enough to guide him to a couch and offer him some water, a warm blanket, whatever he wants until his panic attack passes and he's comfortably settled into one of the sectionals in the TV sitting area. Jared blinks up at him from his seated position on the floor, head tilting to one side with concern.

 

“You haven't had a panic attack in awhile, are you feeling alright? Can I get you anything?”

 

“Bighead,” he shudders and pulls the blanket closer. When he glances down at his watch it's already 9:45, he has to hurry. “Jared, I need Bighead _here._ ”

 

“I'll see what I can do, you rest, okay?” Richard nods so he can get Jared to leave, even though he'd rather not be alone right now. This is bigger than a dumb panic attack.

 

When he checks his phone is full of concerned text messages and sad emoji faces, and one final picture message of an Uber car, a wordless “I'm on my way”, and Richard can relax now. Bighead will be here in no time, and he can finally tell someone about his data.

 

Bighead doesn't even knock, he just shoves the door open and rushes around until Richard croaks out a “here” and he rushes over, concern evident and probably not misplaced.

 

“Dude, you like, freaked out on the phone,” oh crap he forgot about that part, “are you dying or something? Be honest dude I can take it.”

 

“No, not dying,” he takes another drink and finally feels like he can breathe at least somewhat normally. “Just, I've been doing some research and it's, it's big,” he's nodding, sure of himself, more than he has been in awhile, “and, if you can, just, come on, outside.” Richard drags the quilt Jared draped over his shoulders along and starts walking outside without checking to see if Bighead followed.

 

“Dude what, Richard you're not even wearing shoes.”

 

Oh, that's interesting. Richard looks down and yeah, he's barefoot, but he looks back up, undeterred by his lack of footwear. His watch says 10:22 pm now, not much time. He focuses on the streetlight and pulls the blanket tight.

 

“So it's totally cool if you're like, losing your mind or whatever, but ah… so what're you doing dude?”

 

“Watching,” Richard replies. He's not one for observational data, but Bighead is, and really so is the general population, so if his theory is going to gain any traction this is probably a good place to start. He  sighs, “something's wrong with the world.”

 

“Okay, I can get behind that.” Bighead crosses his arms and looks out at the street, “what's wrong exactly?”

 

“That street light, see it?” He points to the one on the corner and checks to see if Bighead nods, which he does. “It’ll flicker at 10:37.”

  


“Flicker?”

 

“Does every night. Don't see why it would stop now.”

 

“Oh-kay,” Bighead turns Richard away from the light and he can't stop the horrible whine noise he makes when he's torn away from his research, but he quiets when Bighead looks him over as if he's checking for some sort of head injury. “Dude, why the _fuck_ does that matter?”

 

“Okay, poor explanation, I,” Richard shakes out his arms, he's feeling a bit clammy again and it's not a good sign. “Have you ever felt weird or like… fuck, Bighead, I swear I'm not losing it, that fucking light's been doing that for thirty-eight days, same exact _fucking_ time and it's freaking me out.”

 

“You've been keeping _track_?”

 

“Sort of,” extensively, with notes, and calculations, “it's just weird, and everyone already thinks I'm just paranoid, but, Jesus, will you at least stay and watch with me? It's only,” he looks down and swears, “four minutes, and then it'll do it again, and it _shouldn't do that_ , Bighead, it's not _natural.”_

 

“Dude, Richard, relax,” he nods. He's not actually sure he can relax ever again, but for the sake of the argument he'll try. “I'll watch or whatever, okay? And then if you've got some crazy theory, don't look at me like that you know how this sounds,” the frown on Richard's face eases and Bighead smiles, not necessarily happy, but not looking nearly as uneasy about whatever the hell Richard looks like, which he's assuming falls somewhere on the 'not good' end of the scale, “we'll figure this out dude, I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw - drowning

At 10:37 pm, the light flickers.

 

And Bighead's reaction is far more underwhelming than it should have been, because Richard just predicted the god-damned _future,_ even if it was just a streetlight turning off and on, but when Richard looks to him, anxiety and excitement that he was _right_ and it's still happening (Ignoring the part where he wants to cry a little because it _shouldn't do that at all_.) but Bighead just looks back with one eyebrow raised in question and a 'you're seriously pumped about _this_?' look on his face.

 

“What?”

 

“Dude, I don't know if you're aware of this, but that wasn't really that exciting, you know? Why does that mean there's something wrong?”

 

“Okay, it's,” he cracks his neck to the side, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts enough to hopefully sound coherent, “so, coincidence is like, you don't see the cause but there _has to be_ some sort of driving force, like, it seems crazy but events are connected. But this, there's _nothing,_ Bighead, just a light, that flickers every damn day at the same _fucking_ time, and there's no reason for it.”

 

“Power surge?”

 

“Can't be, it's only the one light, and the block's on the same circuit.” He shifts his weight a couple times, now fully aware of his bare feet and the fact that, while it's still California, the pavement has cooled off enough to make his chronically cold feet feel colder. Inside, preferably in his warm, comfortable bed, sounds preferable, especially with his data collection done for the day. “It's just not _normal,_ but, I don't know. I don't really have an explanation that won't make you… you'll freak out, probably.”

 

“You're sure you're okay dude? You can be like, not okay, you know. You _did_ lose your job, sort of.”

 

“Not really 'sort of' but… I don't know, it's less stressful. Can work on my own stuff a lot more. I still have some say, you know, maybe it was a good thing.”

 

Not that he's made any progress with his own app, or algorithm, or anything like that, but he has the time and energy, and that's an important first step.

 

“That's good, real good. Just, you know, maybe call _before_ you have another panic attack, yeah? Or let Jared deal, he seems like a pretty capable guy an all.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” if Richard doesn't bite his head off for throwing away his carefully ordered (completely messy and hardly legible) notes on his theories about the light and what it means for the world. “Look, I'll just… I need to get my shit organized, I guess, so um… I'll call you? When I won't sound like a fucking moron.”

 

“Dude, if you figure out something is actually wrong, I will _run_ over here. Like, with my actual legs and everything.”

 

“Ha, yeah,” he makes a face when Bighead claps him on the shoulder, the closest Bighead's really gotten to initiating a hug, but he taps on his phone to call an Uber. “See you.”

 

“Yeah, later.”

 

-

 

It's never _quite_ the same, but it is, essentially. A sphere, or maybe an egg, something rounded at the edges, enclosed, _tight,_ and he can't see. Feels around, but there's nothing to feel, only smooth curves on all sides, solid and unyielding.

 

Water. It's always water. He holds his breath, counts to at least thirty, maybe sixty on a good day, but it's not enough, never will be. Richard lets out a stream of bubbles, then a full breath, exhaling in a panic, and it's gone. He has no air, chokes once, lungs filling with water, coughing makes it worse.

 

He doesn't drown, just chokes, blacks out, reawakens, over and over again, silently screaming until he wakes up.

 

-

 

Richard usually finds himself drenched in sweat after a nightmare, and tonight is no different. It's always the same, always a stupid fucking dream, and he can't figure out if he forgot some sort of childhood trauma or if he just really, _really_ fears drowning to death, but either way he knows he's not sleeping anymore tonight.

 

First, a shower. He's covered in sweat (and _not_ urine, he's not so terrified that he's wet himself) and probably smells like he's run a marathon. And the shower has an added bonus of being able to help him calm down after the dream (nightmare, and he's getting really sick of them happening so often) so Richard grabs a clean towel from his closet and quietly walks out of his room.

 

It's late, and no one else is up playing videogames, but when Richard passes by the kitchen he sees one of the small counter lights flicked on and Jared leaning over the counter, eyes scanning something rapidly.

 

A legal pad, and when Richard abandons his path to get a closer look, he recognizes his own handwriting scrawling across the top, and some of his calculations filling up the lower half. He feels a surge of irritation bloom somewhere around his chest, replacing all the anxiety with annoyance. Those are _his_ notes, _his_ (crazy) theories and research, and _Jared_ is standing there, after _stealing them from Richard's room,_ probably thinking he needs to institutionalize Richard.

 

Well, fuck that.

 

“Jared, what the _fuck_?” Jared nearly jumps through the ceiling he startles so badly, and Richard feels at least half of his irritation switch over to concern without his consent. Jared is _fine,_ and a thief, and Richard needs to stand up for himself, because the day even Jared Dunn can best Richard Hendricks is the day he rolls over and dies.

 

“Richard, I thought you were asleep,” he's not bothering to try and excuse the legal pad, which is good, because Jared is a terrible liar, and his conscience is already figuring out the proper penance to pay Richard for taking his things.

 

“Bad dream,” and he swears in his head, because that's distracting from the main point, and Jared's guilty, puppy-eyed look changes to a concerned, puppy-eyed look. “I'm fine.”

 

“It woke you up?”

 

“Not… that's not the issue Jared,” he says it like a swear, Jared, like this, admittedly rather small, infraction is on par with some heinous crime. Jared's face switches back to guilty, like it _should._

 

Richard just wishes he didn't feel guilty too. He thought catching a thief would feel more righteous, but Jared is, well, _Jared_ , and being mad at him has always felt kind of like kicking a kitten.

 

“Right, Richard, I'm terribly sorry,” he fiddles with the bottom corner of the legal pad before sliding it over to Richard, “you've just been rather distracted, and I thought that, perhaps, reading your notes would help me to understand, and then I could help you.” Jared frowns. “But I'm afraid you've lost me a bit. Your notes are rather… disorganized. I have some highlighters if you like, or you could try writing everything on note cards so you can reorder them.”

 

He feels like he's being lectured about taking notes in class, and Richard isn't sure when this went from 'Jared don't steal' to 'Richard your notes are difficult to understand/read' but he makes a mental note about staying on topic when he's trying to prove a point.

 

“Well, just… don't just take my _notes._ I could've forgotten something, or… they're important, okay?” Jared nods. “And… it takes a lot of time to, you know, rewrite them every time, you took the other notes too right?”

 

“Other notes?”

 

He'd been so certain it was Jared moving his things and throwing out the notes he left in the common area, but Jared's still a terrible liar, he's still bad at organizing his thoughts, and now Richard is _actually_ starting to worry, because if Jared didn't throw them away to keep the house clean, then someone else _did,_ and no one in this house would bother without some sort of ulterior motive.

 

Richard turns back to the doorway, the one that just _barely_ lets Richard catch a glimpse of one of the streetlights outside, and he can feel his worry start to swell.

 

“Richard? Are you alright?”

 

“No,” he mumbles, rubbing his face and trying to breathe properly even though his throat feels like it's closing, like he's underwater all over again, “not really.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The first couple of nights after the drowning dream Richard is always a bit reluctant to go to sleep, and with the added stress of one of his housemates taking his notes, Richard finds he has very little drive to even attempt lying down, let alone get a solid eight hours. It's left him feeling both determined to figure out this streetlight and a little punch drunk from the lack of restful sleep.

 

Dinesh, and by some extension Gilfoyle, could _possibly_ doing it just to fuck with him; it wouldn't be the first time they'd done something similar, and it would at least ease his mind knowing it was their usual amount of maliciousness behind the act and not some darker, more malevolent force causing setbacks to his research.

 

Erlich is somewhat more concerning, only because the normally apathetic “house leader” has no reason to _want_ to slow down Richard's progress; it has nothing to do with work, and the ten percent of Pied Piper he's so lovingly guarded is safe with the new CEO holding the reins. Unless he's not telling Richard something, making his research more important but possibly more dangerous, not something he wants to think about too hard.

 

Jared already openly admitted to taking the last legal pad, and unless he's magically learned to lie to Richard there's basically zero chance he's the one that took the other notes.

 

He's not going to confront anyone about the notes; knowing who's taking them is more for his peace of mind than anything substantial, but the slight sting of betrayal keeps him going back. The only blessing is the strength of his nightmare feels small in comparison to the real threat of someone actively trying to sabotage Richard, and it takes less time to feel his anxiety about the dream slip away.

 

As Richard crawls up into his bed and settles his comforter up around his ear, he makes a small mental note that if someone is willing to try and stop him, then his crazy ramblings _must_ have some significance and aren't just a sign of his tenuous grasp on mental health.

 

It's not exactly comforting, but having even a shaky confirmation that his research matters is enough to help Richard slip into unconsciousness.

 

-

 

A few soft raps against his door startle Richard, and he rolls over with a groan. It's early, or late, he isn't sure, but there isn't any sign of daylight, and after not sleeping for two days (excluding a few stress naps, which never help him _feel_ rested but at least keep him from falling apart completely) getting interrupted feels like a slap to the face.

 

“Richard?” It's Jared, and oh, Richard is going to conjure up a couple of colorful terms for this wonderful occasion. “Richard, can I come in?”

 

“Yes,” _because I want to yell at you in person_. Richard props himself up on one elbow and watches as Jared quietly opens the door and shuts it again before shuffling over to the side of Richard's bed, looking appropriately meek about the intrusion, but not enough to _not do it_ , and Richard squashes the part of him that always wants to roll over and let Jared off without any sort of reprimand.

 

“I've been thinking, and it occurs to me that perhaps you could progress in your research faster if you collaborated. I should have waited, and I apologize, but I couldn't sleep, thinking about the possibility of helping you with a breakthrough.”

 

Damn it. He should really get in the habit of speaking first, because Jared's here trying to be _helpful_ and Richard isn't awake enough to stop the flood of gratitude from overtaking his annoyance. “Um, well, it probably could've waited until morning,” it's as close to scolding as he's going to get right now, and Jared nods and turns to leave, “but, um, well, since you're here, I guess I could give it a shot.”

 

Jared smiles and holds up a finger, “I'll be right back,” he exclaims, and not even a minute later Jared returns with a kitchen chair and places it by Richard's bed before stepping up and excitedly leaning in, already hanging on Richard's every word. “I'm all ears.”

 

“Right, um,” he was not ready for his audience to be so attentive at what is apparently three in the fucking _morning_ , but Jared, ignoring the part where he's in his sleep clothes and his normally covered shoulders are definitely _not_ , is as bright eyed and attentive as always, “so, there's got to be um… could you grab my notepad? It's on my desk.”

 

“Of course,” Jared disappears for a moment before popping back up, legal pad in hand.

 

“Thanks, so, right, there's got to be some, like, _reason_ for the pattern. At first I thought it was the number, but it's not a date, and well, it's obviously a _time_ but that means fuck all, I think at least, and all I get from a search is stupid radio stations, and I'm not going to listen to every single station. It's stupid, and probably not relevant.”

 

Jared nods, “perhaps it doesn't matter?”

 

“That's what I'm thinking, it's too… the time isn't the part to focus on, it's the actual _event,_ the pattern, happening every day, but why?” He flips past a couple pages of equations and scribbles. “First, maybe it's some sort of signal, like a message, but it's not Morse code, unless it's just an 'e' over and over again, like it's screaming or something, god that's super creepy to think about. So, not a message.”

 

Unless he's some sort of alien sleeper agent and they're trying to signal him awake but somewhere along the way he got his programming fucked up and all it's doing is creating a paranoid loop, but he doesn't like to entertain that idea often. Too often. Okay he's thought about it at least ten times but when it's been over forty days and he still has no answers it's hard to keep some of the less weird ideas from entering his stream of consciousness.

 

He's probably keeping that theory to himself.

 

“Maybe I'm supposed to find more patterns, like, it's a piece of a puzzle?” He taps on his notepad, wishing his pens weren't all the way on his desk, but not sure what he would write if he actually had one in his hand. “The light doesn't mean much on its own if that's the case.”

 

“Now, I know you don't want it to be this simple, but could it be a prank of sorts?”

 

Richard wants to protest and offer up one of his more, well, outlandish theories for criticism, but on one hand they make him sound like a nut, and he has no proof that it isn't that simple. “But why?”

 

“Well, I know pranks are often intended to harm, but perhaps it was meant to distract you? When you were removed as CEO you were rather despondent, and now, excluding the panic of course because that isn't a plus, you've been much more engaged and social. I don't want to discount any of your other theories,” he's quick to add, “I'm sure they're just as valid,” Richard snorts, “I just thought it would be prudent to consider all the options.”

 

“Yeah, and I have,” Richard sets the legal pad near his feet and flops onto his back, “but I think I just want to sleep right now. Think about it fresh in the morning.”

 

“Would you like my help?”

 

“No, well, maybe. I'll come find you, okay? Once I know what the _fuck_ I'm doing.”


	4. Chapter 4

Richard is fully aware that normal life has a pattern.

 

For example, ten minutes into the workday Gilfoyle and Dinesh start yelling and he turns up his headphones from 6 to 8, 6 being the level that allows him to hear someone calling his name, and 8 being the first level where ambient noise is truly covered and someone has to tap on his shoulder in order to get his attention. Since they're in a real office he's normally at 6, or 4 if it's a deadline day and he's expecting his name to sound through the main room. And obviously he prefers (needs) them to be on even numbers, except 5, that's always been the one exception.

 

So, two patterns, even numbers and the fighting. But those aren't unnatural or unexpected. People as a whole are rather ingrained in patterns.

 

Which is why it's so uncomfortable to break all of his normal routine and sit in the park during his half hour lunch. But it's the closest place around that he can people (and scenery) watch without looking like some kind of pervert.

 

It isn't terribly exciting at first.

 

People mill about, some jogging, some playing, but for the most part the park is only active because of a couple food trucks strategically placed to be within walking distance of a lot of the offices in the area. And pattern research be damned, Richard is not about to spend every day on this dumb park bench, watching some asshole geese mill about in the water until he can find another weird pattern.

 

Maybe he's over-thinking everything. It's obviously a prank, and now it's a prank that got him to sit _outside_ when he could be inside and comfortable and not so exposed.

 

Back at the office Jared waves him over, “Richard, did you enjoy your lunch?”

 

Richard feels a twinge of disappointment, which he decides is due to the question. He wanted to discuss his research, not comment on the food he didn't actually eat, but they are at work, and Gilfoyle's desk is a bit too close to have a private conversation. “Yeah, uh, might go back tomorrow.”

 

He has no idea why he said that, he didn't gain anything today and he doubts going back tomorrow, but Jared hums and nods, looking like he'd trust Richard with his life, “I'm sure you'll figure this out Richard. And I'm right here if you need help.”

 

-

 

He goes to the park again the next day, because Jared believes in him, and he's at a standstill until he gets more information, and if he's being honest with himself the spacious Pied Piper office has started making him feel claustrophobic.

 

If he's being honest with himself he would prefer to go back to the incubator and hide out in his bed so he could just pretend things are okay for a few hours.

 

But he doesn't; it's not like he wouldn't feel infinitely worse if he hid in his bed all day. So Richard finds himself once again lunch-less and sitting on the same bench near the small pond. And again, people (but of course none of the same people from yesterday) are milling about and getting food from the trucks.

 

“Forget it,” Richard huffs and puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Absentmindedly he watches the geese, one corner of his mouth quirking up for a moment when one goose chases the other. “Every damn… day.”

 

Richard straightens and watches the geese as they resume their lazy floating near the center of the pond. One circle, two, he can't tell if it's a pattern or just animal nature. He sits back and dedicates a higher percentage of his attention to watching the pond. A light breeze rustles the tall grass, water ripples, and the geese chase each other again.

 

And again. Same spot, every twenty minutes.

 

Two hours into his half hour lunch Richard is a shaking ball of anxiety, apologizing profusely for being gone so long, and yes of course he'll stay late to make up for being gone. No, it won't happen again, and after a few panicked minutes hyperventilating into a paper lunch sack in the bathroom he calmly walks over to Jared's desk.

 

“Um, so, I have to stay late but… fuck, can you help me with something after work?”

 

-

 

“Richard, I'm not exactly sure how these waterfowl help with your theories?”

 

“It's,” Richard runs a nervous hand through his hair as he fumbles with his cellphone, “I need video but um… _shit_ I'm shaky as fuck, and I need you to hold it for about twenty-one minutes.”

 

“That's… oddly specific.” Jared gently takes the phone from Richard and taps the button to switch the camera to video.

 

“It's important, trust me.” God he hopes this isn't just a waste of time. “Just make sure you get the pond okay? And the geese. I need to...” he takes a couple gulps of air, grimacing at the lack of chill he currently has and the likelihood that it's probably never coming back, “just let me freak out behind a tree or something.”

 

“Richard this doesn't sound sound very good for your overall well being. Are you sure you don't want me to do something else? I've done some reading, and I think I've figured out a few relaxation techniques you can try.”

 

“No, no I'm okay,” he's really not but he _needs_ to get some more evidence. “Just, video, start right...” he glances up and swears, they're nearly in place, “start now! And… just wait until after they fight again.”

 

“Until they…?” Richard watches Jared turns back with the camera in place and hits record, and the only sign that Jared is surprised about the chase is a quiet intake of breath. “How did you know they would chase one another?”

 

“It's,” he shakes his head, “just please get this video, and I'll try to explain.”


	5. Chapter 5

He forces Jared to watch the video with him, sitting at his desk, crowded around his laptop as it plays the rather uneventful video of two geese floating in the water and fighting in twenty minute intervals.

 

“Richard, I don't doubt that this is important to you, but don't you think this is a bit-”

 

“It sucks, right? It's like, this is like getting one data point and claiming it's significant, fuck.” Richard rubs his face. “I need to go back, right? Get like, a couple hours of footage or something?”

 

“Richard, you're very excited about this, and it's wonderful to see you so engaged in something again, but I don't want you to be disappointed if this doesn't pan out.” He puts a hand on Richard's shoulder, trying to soften the blow, but Richard can't help the Muppet frown from taking over his face.

 

“So, I guess you _don't_ think this is anything?”

 

“I think,” Jared pauses, biting his lip, “that in order to decide whether or not this is anything significant, you should consider all possibilities.”

 

“Consider all-” Richard groans. “Jared, you can't rig a _goose_ to do something in a pattern.”

 

“Animals are very prone to patterned behavior. It's possible that they won't fight at all tomorrow, or perhaps they'll fight every ten minutes. Until you know, I think it's important to consider the possibility that someone is trying to mess with you.”

 

“Fine, okay,” Richard grumbles and shuts his laptop, “so, maybe someone's messing with me. Why the _fuck_ would someone go to the fucking _lengths_ to make a stupid… fuck I have an idea.”

 

-

 

Of course, he waits until morning. Spends a decent amount of time curled up comfortably under his blankets, warm and feeling relatively safe for the moment. Calls Bighead bright and early without bothering to climb down from his bed, even though it's a Saturday and he's probably not awake. No answer, not until Richard is halfway through a painful voice mail. “Dude, it's way too early for whatever this is-”

 

“You're like, co-CIO or whatever right?”

 

“Um, yeah,” he hears rustling, and assumes Bighead is also still in bed, “dude you could've looked that up online, why'd you-”

 

“I need to talk to Belson. In person.”

 

The other line is quiet, and he starts to worry that Bighead feel back to sleep, “Bighead?”

 

“Uh… dude, do you know what it means to be a CIO? I think you do, fuck sorry, but like… you do know I don't go to work on the weekend right? I don't know what Gavin does on Saturdays.”

 

Richard takes a moment to pull his blankets over his head and cover his face with his pillow, hoping gravity will fuck up somehow and make it weigh twenty pounds and quietly smother him. “Fuck, um… okay, is there like… is there a way to set up some sort of meeting?”

 

“How about you come by after work Monday dude, I'll stall or something, keep us there late so you can come over, plus it'll be quieter on the campus after the workday's done. Sound good?”

 

“Yeah, yeah that sounds okay,” he mumbles, somewhat muffled by the pillow, but Bighead grunts in agreement and mumbles a 'see you' before hanging up and, Richard assumes, going back to sleep.

 

As he lies there, feeling another wave of grogginess start to ease him back into unconsciousness, he has a moment of panic when the pillow really _does_ feel like it's trying to smother him, and has to readjust so it's back under his head and he settles in to get some more sleep.

 

-

 

He only got about two lines of code written today, an abyssal work ethic, but he's been so worked up about confronting Gavin to find out, once and for all, whether or not the richest asshole that hates him has been throwing money into another way to fuck with him.

 

It's ridiculous, really. He's only doing this to appease Jared; to prove that he's right and the patterns really do mean something.

 

But…

 

But Richard hasn't gotten to truly confront Gavin since the arbitration, since he got fired and has to walk into work everyday staring at the door that should have _his_ name on it, and he's feeling a lot of pent up frustration and anger start to bubble up from the place he shoved it down into all those months ago.

 

He gets a text from Bighead, a thumbs up (an actual picture of his hand, and Richard will never understand his best friend but he's thankful for him regardless) along with a couple words 'good 2 go'. Richard nods to his phone and takes a moment to collect his thoughts, to remember all the _complete bullshit_ he's gone through just because some rich asshole decided Richard wronged him.

 

“Jared, I need your car.”

 

-

 

He doesn't remember the drive to Hooli, only the slow burn of rage settled in his stomach. How dare Gavin? Honestly, they're not even working _against_ each other and he's trying to make Richard miserable. What an asshole. A fucking _bastard._ _How dare he?_

 

He loses a little steam when he has to wait for Bighead to come approve his visitor's pass but it all comes flooding back when he sees a few posters for Nucleus 2.0, powered by _ **fucking Endframe**_ _._

 

** Now he's pissed. **

 

Richard wishes he had dedicated some of the last few months to weight lifting or maybe boxing or something that would allow him to channel this rage into a punch powerful enough to knock the smirk off Gavin's face, but he didn't, so the best he can do is imagine he's smashing Gavin in the nose. It's less satisfying than the real thing, but at least he won't break his hand.

 

“Richard, Nelson told me-”

 

“Bighead-” Richard knows he sounds pissed, and he's _glad,_ because he's _livid._

 

“Uh, dude, I don't think my nickname matters-”

 

“You think you're some _fucking hotshot,_ with your… your stupid company, wait, that's,” he hates when he does this, derails himself so effectively without getting to the meat of the argument, “you're fucking with me, right? That's what this is? The… the stupid light, every _fucking_ day. Hm? Just… trying to what? Distract me? Make me lose my mind? Stop me from coming up with the next,” he waves his arms theatrically and ends with a, “big coding breakthrough? Is that it?”

 

He didn't really take the time to assess the room before starting on his little outburst, but as Richard waits for Gavin to fess up he notes the second desk, obviously Bighead's given the presence of candy and small fiddly things, like a slinky and some magnet desk toys. And Gavin, sitting at his ridiculous tree desk, looking less smug and more confused by the second. Richard fidgets, he's still worked up, but he's not sure what to say.

 

“Richard, I'm going to just let you start over, because obviously, whatever it was that you _wanted_ to say got lost somewhere along the way out of your mouth.”

 

“Endframe stole our tech, you know,” he didn't realize this was still bothering him so much but if he's going to have the chance to get it all out he might as well purge, “well, like, we sort of _gave_ it to them, but… but it's my algorithm.”

 

“Yes, and it _works,_ if I'm not mistaken. You've helped them out a great deal, and by extension, me. I'm sure you're thrilled.” Gavin cocks his head to one side, and Richard isn't sure what he's supposed to do with that non-verbal communication, but apparently Bighead does, and he hands Richard a bottle of water from nowhere, no not nowhere, from the mini-fridge in the corner. “Let me guess, no legal standing? Sit.” Richard does, he didn't really _want_ a civil conversation, but it's kind of calming in a way, discussing things like adults. “Richard, this is the nature of this industry. You can't take these things so seriously if you want to get anywhere.”

 

“Didn't _you_ take it too personally?” Gavin scowls. “I mean, you fucked with my company for _months. You're still fucking with me.”_

 

“Richard, I know this might surprise you, but I _do_ have other things to do during my day that don't involve you in the slightest.” Bighead coughs, an overly-done, fake couch burying a 'tell him' under all the grumbling. “Richard, as my _co-CIO_ has informed me, _several times,_ you may have taken our little spat rather personally.”

 

“Spat?” Richard shifts in his chair and contemplates throwing the water bottle, but he's afraid he would miss and have to replace a computer. “You're calling all that, all the legal bullshit-”

 

“Richard, you worked on Pied Piper at work. If we're remembering correctly, you were in the wrong.” Richard takes a drink to cover up his scowl. “But you're the one dragging this back up, not me. And I am trying to _apologize_ , Richard. So, here it is, happy? I'm sorry. I was, perhaps, not driven solely by enlightened thinking when I went after your company in its early stages, and it's set us _both_ back, so, I suppose karma caught up with me.”

 

It doesn't feel like an apology, or maybe Richard's just not in the mood for a confrontation free resolution. “Pass.”

 

“Richard, I don't give a _fuck_ if you accept my apology, but I am telling you, that I have _put this behind me._ It's not important. Hell, your algorithm is going to be obsolete in another month or two, and not even because we're trying to improve. _It's the nature of the industry._ You're holding onto old technology. And frankly, I'm sorry your own inability to let go of a grudge is going to be the thing that holds you back.”

 

“Richard uh,” Bighead claps a hand on his shoulder, “um, dude, breathe a couple times dude you're freaking me out with the staring.”

 

Richard takes a breath, not realizing he'd been holding his breath during Gavin's little speech. He's angry, angry at Gavin and himself, and he wants to go home (or really, go back to the office because he abandoned Jared there almost an hour ago, promising he'd swing back around before going home).

 

“So, what, you're just… you're done fucking with me? Not doing anything like… say, making a light blink the same time everyday?”

 

Gavin's brow wrinkles, confusion, maybe a bit of concern, and maybe that was a bit too specific an example, since it's the real one, but he didn't catch any signs of guilt before Gavin settled on rubbing one hand on his temple. “Why the  _ fuck  _ would I do that? Does that better my company? Or benefit me in  _ any  _ way? You  _ do  _ realize everything I did was for Hooli, right? Tell me, what does this,” he waves his hand, “light, is it? What does this  _ light  _ turning off and on do for me?”


	6. Chapter 6

Richard wouldn't call his little meeting with Gavin productive, but he's at least somewhat mollified, content to write off prank and return to his geese observations.

 

He really needs to look at the choices he's made during his life and how they led to him goading Jared into helping him in an all night geese filming, because even though he's enjoying the snacks Jared made (hummus and homemade pita bread, plus some thing with seeds or quinoa or something in it, whatever it is it's tasty) he's still sitting around on a work night because he can't sleep until he figures out these damn geese.

 

“Aren't they supposed to sleep?” He turns to Jared, partially to get his question answered, and partially because he wanted to take another look at their camera to make sure it was actually recording.

 

“Yes and it's very likely that they'll do it in the water, although, they're likely placed here by the city, and this pond is relatively safe from predators. Perhaps they have a nest area nearby.” Jared checks his watch, “it is rather late.” No kidding, normally Richard (with his new 'adult' sleep schedule and less responsibilities) is in bed and already asleep at midnight. “It's rather unusual for a goose to spend this much time awake. You haven't seen them sleeping at all during the day?”

 

“All I've seen is this,” he gestures at the geese circling, right on schedule for another fight (the same _fucking_ fight, he's sure of it), “since last week, that's all they do. No sleep, they don't leave the pond-”

 

“That's highly unlikely given their dietary needs, especially in a man-made pond. The closest sedges are across the park.”

 

“They don't _leave,_ Jared. I've _never_ seen them out of the water.”

 

Jared huffs, “not good,” he shakes his head and stands, turning towards the trees and stretching his arms up,  and mumbling to himself, although Richard manages to overhear a quiet , “this isn't good at all, it's unsubtle.”

 

_ Unsubtle? _

 

“Jared?”

 

“Hm? Oh, um, the geese,” he nods, mostly to himself, and refuses to look Richard in the eye as he adds,  “it's not healthy.” He's wringing his hands together, Richard bites his lip, unsure of the cause of Jared's guilty look and unwilling to ask, at least until he can sort a few things out.

 

Apparently, Jared is now one of those things.

 

“Say, um, I don't think we both need to sit out here, and the office is right there so...” he digs around in his pockets for his copy of the key (his one major non-coding responsibility is locking up when he leaves since no one else wants to wait around for him to get done at the end of the day) and hands it to Jared. “If you want, there's a couch in the break room, and you can, you know, sleep. Or at least nap, I was going to before work, probably.”

 

“Oh, well,” Richard hands him the key and smiles, but he's not feeling particularly happy about any of the things he's learned today. Jared stares at the key and sighs, sounding dejected, or maybe rejected, since he came here to help Richard. But it's for the best; Richard isn't sure he can trust anybody now, and the less he trusts them the more he's certain that he's trying to figure out something important.

 

“You're sure you don't want my help?” Richard nods and turns back to the camera. “Alright, well, if you need me to let you inside you should call me, okay?”

 

“Sure Jared,” Richard has no intention of going inside until he's watched these stupid geese fight three times an hour for the next eight hours, but it gets Jared to go inside and give Richard some privacy.

 

-

 

H e feels giddy, not just from the complete lack of sleep, no, he's  _ elated,  _ because they're  _ fake.  _ Can't be real, no way. Richard didn't sleep, the geese didn't sleep, he can feel laughter bubbling up, but he holds it in because he's at work, and  _ he's fine.  _ He's happier than he's been in ages because  _ he was right. _

 

So maybe he falls asleep at his desk, and maybe again in the break room over his lunch, and  _ maybe  _ he has another drowning dream as he snores into his sandwich but he's still so. Damn. Happy.

 

And nauseated. He's feeling rather nauseated after the dream, but after that wears off he's back to feeling elated (and tired, so very tired) and even though he can't exactly  _ share  _ this with anyone yet, it's a step in the right direction.

 

“Richard?” He turns, spins a bit too fast in his chair and nearly tips, but he rights himself, or maybe that was Jared and he just went along for the ride. “Richard, are you alright?”

 

“Huh? Yeah.” _Is_ he alright? He doesn't feel anxious (yes he does) and he's pretty sure sleeping is overrated (he's so tired he wants to crawl under his desk and cry a little) and _the geese are fake._

 

“It's just,” Jared gets down on one knee so they're at eye level with each other, “you look rather tired, and you were already asleep at your desk at least once today. Did I miss a call? I'm sorry, I should've gone out to check on you.”

 

“I'm okay, just, you know, got a lot to process.” He feels like laughing, but that wasn't funny, and Jared's not being funny. Well, he's making that concerned, big-eyed face, and that could be the thing that's funny, but it should probably be worrisome when he directs it towards Richard. Maybe. (Definitely).

 

“Richard, could you follow me please?” Jared stands and motions for Richard to follow, which he does, and Jared leads him into the break room and, far more assertively than Richard ever expected of Jared, physically grabs Richard by the elbows and guides him down so he's sitting on the couch. “I think a nap would be restorative for both work and your research, Richard. I could wake you in a half hour if you like.”

 

“I had a nightmare, um, during lunch.” He didn't mean to share that but his mood is starting to plummet fast; he's just grateful he's already in a semi-private location, even if they are still at work. “Fell asleep and, well, that's how it works I guess. I mean, you know it's when you sleep, it's-”

 

“It's perfectly normal to have nightmares, Richard.” Well yeah, he _knows_ that, has plenty of personal experience with nightmares about that creepy egg thing. “It's perfectly understandable for you to be upset, especially given your lack of sleep. Emotions are often at their most volatile when you're sleep deprived.”

 

“I'm not-” his voice cracks, and Richard is faced with the horrifying truth that he _is_ upset, and worse, he's nowhere near his bed, his usual sanctuary of choice when he's inevitably going to do something as humiliating as crying. Hiding under his desk is sounding more inviting by the minute.

 

J ared kneels in front of Richard. “It's alright Richard. Would you like some privacy? Or I could stay if you want.”

 

“Just,” Richard leans forward, and even though he kind of wants Jared to try and comfort him, he doesn't say anything; he puts his face in his hands. “Can you keep everyone out of here?”

 

He hates how small he sounds, hates the way his throat tightens; Jared grabs his shoulder once, gives it a squeeze, and doesn't say another word as he leaves the break room, closing the door and, hopefully, keeping everyone at bay until Richard can pull his shit together.


	7. Chapter 7

Richard doesn't bother telling anyone _why_ he's leaving the house in the middle of the night, every night, for an entire week. Jared always seems to notice, to sit up from his place on one of the couches and watch with sad, wide eyes as Richard quietly slips out the front door. It feels a little like sneaking out during high school; once Bighead dragged Richard to a midnight release and Richard spent the entire movie quietly freaking out that he would get caught. Except Richard is an adult, and he's allowed to go out in the middle of the night.

 

And, sleep interruptions and dark raccoon eyes aside, it's been the best idea he's had in _ages._

 

It's all patterns. All of them, he feels giddy, but not drunk, no, this is the excitement from _progress._ Because he's found dozens of animals and bugs at the park, and night after night _they do the exact same thing._

 

Which means a few things (really only one thing but he's trying to consider all options for research's sake) either animals are way more patterned than anyone thought, or they're fake.

 

It's terrifying, really, when he sits alone in his room and rewatches clip after clip on his phone, writing down the patterns and figuring out their sequences; animals aren't real.

 

Well, they're not fake either really, but they're also not _living_ , and that's the part that matters to him. Because every biology class, every after school educational program, at some point, has told him that animals are living creatures. Biology is the study of _living_ things. But here he is, proving all of that _false._

 

He spends the night in the bathroom after concluding that a good portion of his life is a lie. In between curling up on the rug, either passing out or sleeping (he's not sure which would be better), and throwing up in the toilet, he comes up with another potential hypothesis: what if people aren't real?

 

It's a bit horrifying to think about, so he has to table this train of thought until his panic starts to recede, helped by a very warm, very comforting shower with him sitting under the stream with his knees drawn up to his chest. He watches the water droplets as they drip off the tip of his nose and onto his arm, breathing in steam and breathing out long and slow to help calm his heart down to its normal panicked flutter. Gradually it works; his palpitations stop and the urge to throw up passes.

 

Richard needs to tell someone; to collaborate, or the stress of knowing his very existence might be a lie could actually kill him.

 

But first he gets dried off and dresses in his sweats. He wipes off the steam from the mirror, catching a glimpse of tired eyes and week old stubble. Richard knows he slept a little, but he's never felt so _exhausted_ before and his head feels like an overinflated balloon (one more fact and he might just pop something), and he blames the animals. If they were just _real_ then he wouldn't feel like crap.

 

But they aren't, and maybe he isn't either, and even a guy like Richard has limits.

 

So he walks past Jared on the couch, ignoring the pull to wake him up for a change and absolutely blow his mind, and crawls up into his bed.

 

He'll tell Jared tomorrow; for now Richard takes a moment to turn off his alarm and settles in for some high quality, restorative sleep.

 

-

 

This time, under water, _trapped,_ Richard is calm. No, not calm, he still feels the panic, but he feels detached, disbelieving. Something doesn't feel right, or normal, or _something._

 

' _I don't like swimming._ '

 

It makes no sense, why _that_ of all things makes him aware of his dream, but it does, and Richard tells himself he's not drowning, not going to die. He's never truly lucid dreamed before, but he's fully aware of the concept; Bighead does it all the damn time without even trying, and of course the first time Richard manages to come aware he can't seem to will himself to change any of his environment, but he closes his eyes and the dream shifts to the pond.

 

Dream Richard watches the geese, feeling strangely soothed by their rhythmic patterns, content to watch them circle over and over again without even blinking.

 

Richard sleeps for ten hours straight and still feels the urge to roll over and doze.

 

But he needs to talk to Jared and, reluctantly, Richard crawls out of bed to do just that.

 

-

 

He should apologize.

 

Correction, he should apologize to _Jared._ The rest of the world can kiss his ass.

 

Okay, maybe he's being dramatic, and _maybe_ he should remember that Bighead is his friend, and also helpful, and willing to listen to his crazy crap, has been for years. He's the first person Richard trusts, and the first person he showed the streetlight. He's always been willing to help Richard, even if it's just a pat on the back and gratuitous moral support.

 

But he's also working with _Gavin._ And _Gavin_ cannot be trusted. _Gavin_ should probably be punted into the Pacific. Richard would do it himself if he had any sort of muscle tone.

 

Obviously that bullshit about 'putting things behind him' was a ruse, a false reassurance that **Gavin Belson Has Moved On.** Fat chance.

 

The best course of action is to finish his research. Then, and only then, can he confide in Bighead. Any sooner and a likely scenario takes place: Richard confides in his best friend (like he's done hundreds of times in the past), Bighead (loveable and friendly and terrible at keeping his mouth shut about anything) blabs one day while they're in their _shared office,_ Gavin goes to crazy lengths to shut Richard down (because he _always_ does, creep) and boom, Richard's plan is foiled again.

 

Another painful thought, one Richard hates to consider but feels like he has to given the circumstances, what if Bighead's been swayed by Gavin, pulled in by that charm and a potential promise of power (or just more money if he's being honest with himself) and decides that _literal_ decades of friendship don't mean squat if it turns out Richard is just losing his mind.

 

But really, obviously Jared isn't working against him. He must have misheard, that's all. Unsubtle, unsuitable, they're really similar; Richard's been down this path before, thank you lack of sleep, and he should have realized he was reaching paranoia stages on his Richard's Going Downhill Fast scale of sleep deprivation. Of course, he should feel paranoid (though he has no concrete reason _why,_ but he's certain he should) but attitudes were had, feelings were hurt, and Jared got caught in the crossfire. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

And he's been so helpful, especially when Richard was Not Okay, and that on its own should be enough to convince Richard that if there's anyone he can trust in this world right now, it's Jared.

 

And this is why, not even ten minutes later, while Richard watches Jared pace the kitchen with a phone, muttering things to an unknown party in hushed whispers, (things like ' _not careful'_ and ' _he's going to find out';_ definitely not what he wanted to hear) Richard finally, truly realizes he was right all along.

 

Everyone can fuck themselves; he's facing this shit storm alone.


	8. Chapter 8

In a way, deciding that everyone in the world is against him is freeing.

 

Richard, for all his speeches about keeping Pied Piper afloat and teamwork and blah blah blah, is actually well suited for solo work. He slips on a pair of headphones and blasts drone techno while he works, only this time instead of a groundbreaking algorithm he's typing his thoughts out; handwriting isn't fast enough when his thoughts feel like they're actually going to make his head explode.

 

His system is far from perfect, but after a full day sitting up in his bed crouching over his laptop, he's decided on a couple big picture concepts.

 

_ Fake animals =?= fake people _

 

_ If fake people = nothing matters _

 

_ No consequences? _

 

_ Pod dream????? _

 

Alright, less concepts, more glaring questions he can't answer with one hundred percent certainty, but he's at least got the animals figured out.

 

In simple terms, Richard is fairly certain the animals are _simulated,_ not fake. It's an important distinction. Fake means someone (i.e. Gavin) is most likely the cause of the strange behavior, and Richard would have to go to Jared and apologize because Gavin _is_ trying to fuck with him. No, he's fairly certain this is bigger than Gavin, or at least, bigger than simply trying to make Richard's life miserable.

 

He isn't ignorant of the simulation theory, but he also decided he shouldn't load his anxiety with such powerful ammunition, but after literal weeks of watching animals function on simple behavior patterns he could have programmed in his sleep and that _damned street light,_ Richard begrudgingly admits to himself that even a full scale panic attack is worth arming himself with concrete knowledge about his, apparently, simulated environment.

 

And while Wikipedia isn't the most reliable, it is _convenient,_ and put in simple terms; Richard isn't going to admit he's feeling overwhelmed out loud, but he is definitely feeling a large amount of anxiety. Any help he can get is welcome at this point.

 

Speaking of help, Richard drags his cellphone out and sends a simple text to Bighead. Could it backfire? Certainly, but Richard told himself he would keep Bighead informed, and after Jared's shady as _fuck_ phone calls he's hoping Bighead is a trusted ally at best and, at worst, just as skeptical as Richard was a few months ago.

 

Well, Bighead being some sort of ally _against_ Richard is the worst case scenario, but he has a _feeling,_ and even though he's usually against relying on his gut (it's terribly unreliable at even holding in _food,_ let alone an insight about people) this is Bighead, his best friend for most of their lives; if he's going to betray Richard he's going to do it on _Richard's_ terms.

 

Not terribly comforting, but Richard is taking what he can get at this point.

 

-

 

What Richard intends to do is read up on the subject before Bighead gets here.

 

What he ends up doing instead is panicking quietly in front of his laptop, but either way time passes and before Richard can truly fall into a panic spiral the doorbell rings. He drops his laptop on the floor as he jumps off the couch and shakily sets it back on the couch. He's praying nothing got fucked up but then groaning when he wonders if he should care, if any of the stuff in this house is anything more than carefully constructed code.

 

What Richard plans on doing is greeting Bighead, inviting him inside, and calmly building up his case before telling him the conclusion.

 

What Richard does is nearly rip off the doorknob and blurt out, “we're in a simulation,” while breathing like he's been running marathons instead of the thirty feet to cross room to get to the door.

 

Bighead is staring at him, eyes wide, hand still up as if he was about to knock. He opens his mouth, closes it, and pinches the bridge of his nose. And here it is, the moment where Richard's faith is completely dashed. Because this is not a good sign, and Bighead is a lot of things but _speechless,_ isn't usually one of them. He swallows, refusing to throw up until Bighead either leaves or tells Richard they're going to the hospital.

 

Seriously, why can't he just have one thing? He doesn't even want to be right, he just wants someone to _listen._

 

“Okay, first, dude, holy fuck, you look like complete shit.” Richard is sufficiently derailed from his internal monologue of self pity and takes a moment to find the hall mirror and, yeah, he looks like shit. His hair is greasy and limp, stubble nearly grown to a gross, scraggly beard, and the bags under his eyes are almost _purple._ “Have you been outside like, at all?”

 

“Outside? No, not really. It doesn't really matter,” Richard shakes his head, “Bighead, please, I-”

 

“Right, okay,” Nelson groans. “Are you busy right now? We should go have a chat.”


	9. Chapter 9

Busy turns out to be rhetorical question, and apparently things aren't as urgent as Richard thought, because Bighead _insists_ Richard take the time to clean himself up before they leave. He doesn't say anything once Richard leaves the bathroom, but nods his approval at Richard's lack of stubble and grease. It feels good to be clean again (Richard wasn't aware he felt so gross until he wasn't anymore) but he has a hard time ignoring the siren call of his warm, comfortable bed in favor of going to his possible doom, but he manages to ignore it for now.

 

After their talk he's probably going to sleep for a week.

 

If he's still able, at least.

 

Bighead gives Richard directions while Richard drives the Aviato van through the city. Richard doesn't question them, assuming they’re going to a diner or some other food establishment. Most, if not all, of their important talks have involved food in some capacity regardless of the time of day. And for whatever reason the thought of Bighead sitting in a booth with at least two plates of food is comforting and familiar, like they're talking about movie plans. Richard accepts it, welcomes the feeling, and hopes it's not the last time Bighead's proximity will provide his frayed nerves a measure of comfort.

 

Because they always took the bus in the mornings from the incubator Richard doesn’t realize Bighead is directing him to Hooli until he turns onto the campus’ street. 

 

“Why the fuck are we at work?”

  


“Meeting someone, just come on, won’t take long.” Bighead gets out of the car and starts walking towards one of the smaller side buildings on the Hooli campus. Richard grumbles, but switches the engine off and pockets his keys before breaking into a mild jog to catch up to Bighead. Of course Bighead is against him, because when does anything go Richard's way? Regardless, Richard follows, and tells himself that at least he'll know who's behind all of this, as if the location wasn't a giant neon sign already.

 

He fucking  _ hates  _ Gavin Belson.

 

Bighead is  sprint-walking across the lawn and cutting over the carefully manicured grass until they both reach the door to a building Richard remembers seeing daily, but not once has he gone inside.  There's a key card access panel, Bighead fumbles with his pockets a bit until he pulls out a simple white card. He swipes it quickly and ushers Richard inside. When they walk down a thin, plain hallway into a mostly empty auditorium he begins to understand why he's never been inside. Gavin usually gives his speeches out on the lawn; this room reminds Richard of one of the many overcrowded lecture halls at college. He can't imagine what Hooli would want with this kind of building.

 

“Bighead, why are we here. This… this is overkill, unless you’re planning on giving a lecture on how I fucked up or something. Then it's still overkill, but, well, you know- thematic. Or something.” Or there's an entire army ready to strangle Richard after they descend from the rafters. Briefly Richard glances up to the ceiling and sighs when it's a flat surface.

 

“Shh,” Bighead glances around the room one last time and _gives a thumbs up?_ To a nearly empty room. Richard braces himself for some sort of attack, but nothing comes. Instead there’s a small ripple in Richard's vision, like heat waves off a car, as the auditorium stage dissolves away, revealing a detail-less, empty room. As if that's completely normal. As if Richard _shouldn't_ find that completely horrifying. Richard uses all his available willpower not to panic and vomit into one of the pristine corners of the white room.

 

“Wh- Bighead- the fuck!?”

 

“I _told_ Gavin you’d start noticing the pattern shit, but _no,_ it’s too subtle.” Bighead continues grumbling to himself and Richard finds he doesn’t have the ability to ask exactly _how_ Gavin Belson has  managed to make the _ROOM DISSOLVE BEFORE HIS EYES_ , but when Bighead turns back around he smiles and helps Richard sit in the only remaining row of auditorium chairs. “Chill, Richard, it’s okay, well, not _now_ but… it's going to be?  Or, just try not to freak out too bad. We’ll explain everything, but I’m not going to be sticking around, so you need to sit tight okay? Gavin will fill in some of the details.”

 

“Belson?” Bighead nods and hands Richard a glass of water. “What the fuck is all this?”

  


“ Complicated,  and not my department.” Bighead sets a chair across from Richard’s row of seats and gives the  _ ceiling  _ a nother thumbs up. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  
And then Bighead strides across the room; he calls out to Richard, “by the way, there’s a bucket under your chair.”

  


Richard holds himself together, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes, until Bighead leaves, but once he hears the quiet snick of the door closing he grabs the bucket and vomits. He considers never looking up again, he can’t handle the changed room and the over bright lights, but a quiet cough across the room startles him upright.

And there Gavin is, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, looking smug and confident as always. Richard feels another gurgle in his stomach, but he wills the nausea away.

  
He's ignoring the part where he didn't hear a door when Gavin came in; Richard is fairly certain he reached tinnitus levels of anxiety when the room transformed and the sudden presence of _that asshole_ isn't helping in the slightest. Bighead, his best friend, partner in crime, whatever, is working with Gavin Belson, left Richard _alone_ with Gavin Belson, and he's supposed to relax? Well, fuck that. If they're going to kidnap him he's not going to make it easy. No, even if his only defense is his unrelenting nausea he'll take what he can get.

  


Richard is one thousand percent certain this is it for him, but he's not going down without a (metaphorical) fight.

  



	10. Chapter 10

“Richard, I’m sure you’re very confused-”

  


“No, not really.” He knows Gavin pretty well by now, and Richard assumed things would escalate out of hand if Gavin decided Richard's mere presence in Silicon Valley was too much to bear. He’s just depressed he managed to convince Bighead to help him out. “I mean, obviously you’ve tricked Bighead into kidnapping me, or maybe you threatened him. Because… because maybe you told him I wouldn’t be hurt if he got me to come quietly. And he can't drive. So. Yeah. The easier the better, and bonus, there's no witnesses. Right?”

  


Gavin’s face, his dumb usually smug face Richard hates looking at  ( it’s all over the damn city on those stupid Nucleus advertisements ) is twisted in  apparent  confusion. His eyebrows are knitted together and he’s dropped his crossed over leg so he can put his hands on his knees, leaning forward and looking at Richard like he just vomited out a monkey, or spoke in tongues. Richard doesn’t know any other languages than his own native English, but he  _ does  _ know about eight programming languages. Maybe he’s scared enough to talk in C++. It sounds like a preferable stress response considering some of the  _ other  _ ones he’s already endured.

  
Okay, time to focus. He's in a room with Gavin Belson. His enemy. Possibly (basically a proven fact) the man that orchestrated this entire operation, whatever that entails. And Richard is defenseless, or so Gavin thinks. But Richard is a smart guy; he's dealt with bullies his whole life, just none quite so megalomaniac-esque.

  


But he'll be okay; he’s watched plenty of spy movies. But this room doesn’t really have a chair he can break a leg off of, and he’s not strong enough to break the leg off of a chair. Clearly this is supposed to be a moment of brain over brawn. He can manage that no problem. Or maybe it is a problem, since he can barely open his mouth without wanting to grab his bucket again. New approach, Gallagher style: he has his car keys and these seats, and there’s Gavin’s chair. None of those really fit together at all, unless he's going to start stacking chairs.

  


Added complication, Gavin is sitting in his chair. And that’s it; he’s back to relying on upper body strength, which isn’t going to happen.

  


Maybe if he just plays dead or something Gavin will let him go home.

  


“Richard, I’m going to tell you a lot of things that one, you’re not going to believe, and two, are going to put a lot of things you know in a new light. However, you can leave at any time.”

  


Oh well in that case, “great, see you Monday.”

  


“Richard, sit, please,” Richard is about half out of his seat, but he sinks back down and frowns across the room. “I expect you to have at least a few fucking _manners_. Let me at least give you a bulleted list or something before you storm off like a teenager.”

  


“Fine, but make it quick.” He’s still feeling nauseated and he’s not too thrilled to be hanging out with a bucket of his puke for a long period of time.

  


“Richard, you told Nelson we're in a simulated reality.” That fucking _Judas,_ how dare he?

  


“Yeah,  _ him,  _ not  _ you. _ ” Richard huffs, very put out that Bighead would tell Gavin. It hasn't even been an  _ hour. _

  


“I had assumed it was too subtle, and that we would have to, ah, let's go with _encourage_ you in the right direction. But here we are, because of _you,_ Richard. A shock to me, but I suppose even _I_ can be pleasantly surprised.” He’s sure that’s a dig on his observational skills, among other things, but Richard doesn’t interrupt so Gavin will finish talking and he can go home sooner. “And you're right the light, animals, none of it is a coincidence. You _clearly_ _know_ the odds of something having that predictable a pattern.”

  


Gavin waves his hand up at one of the white walls, and Richard’s equations flash across something that should  _ not  _ be able to support high resolution images of his late night ramblings.

 

Fuck. Jared. Jared had those, probably for  _ hours.  _ Maybe even  _ days.  _ Gavin shouldn't have these.

 

“ Damn it Jared, fuck. So, everyone's on your side, is that it?” Richard feels like he'll never smile again, and he resists the urge to lick his lips. He's fairly certain any mannerisms would detract from his attempt to burn through Gavin with his eyes. “ What the fuck is all this?  You're just… ”  and Richard thinks back to three in the morning, weeks ago, when Jared suggested that Richard was thinking too big and someone was just messing with him.

 

He needs to get better at heeding warnings one of these days. “You're just trying to drive me crazy, right? Ruin my company? Should've known, and Bighead, he's… he made you tell me the truth.”

 

And he's going to ignore the little room trick, because Hooli is innovative, so it's totally fine for them to waste a bunch of money on transforming rooms. Completely expected. He'll be fine. He's breathing normally. And  _ he is not panicking. _

 

He might be panicking.

  


“I know it’s difficult for you to imagine that I might have other motives aside from the ones you’re deciding to focus on, ones I _already told you I've put behind me,_ but I'll repeat myself for your sake; I _do_ have other thoughts in my head.” Richard shakes his head. “Stop that, I’m being fucking serious, and you’re the one that’s fixated on some ridiculous feud.”

  


“ You spent… fuck…  _ weeks  _ trying to ruin my company, and… and now I’m just… shit I’m just bumbling along and I’m not even in  _ charge _ -”

  


“ Richard, I understand you  thought all this is important,” he hates this tone, he really hates getting talked down to, and he has a sinking feeling that he’s going to deserve every word of it, “ but  your company  _ doesn't matter _ .”

  


“Okay, well, fuck you too,” Richard stands up; he has way too much nervous energy and Richard’s been secretly gearing up for an argument for _months._ Forget the simulation, forget all of it, because he's been itching for a verbal smack down. “ Because we may not be a big company, but Pied Piper still _matters._ We’re a good company, we do good work, and-”

  


“Richard your company is merely a tiny piece of the puzzle that keeps you content and tied down to the simulation. You said it yourself, _we're in a simulation._ Stop _fighting_ for something that's only purpose is to _keep you entertained._ You and I both know why you're really here.”

Alright, these are all words he understands, but he’s not really sure what they’re doing in that order. Richard stops pacing and stares at Gavin, part of him still hoping that Gavin will yell ‘surprise’ or maybe drop confetti on him for surviving the world’s most complicated prank.

 

Belatedly, Richard realizes he wants that, because the alternative is much, much more terrifying.

  


“Can you maybe repeat that? Because it sounded kind of crazy.”

  


“ Richard, I was going to maybe lead up to this, or, I don’t know, use some fucking tact, but you’re getting hysterical.” He is absolutely not hysterical. Richard might be nervous, and jittery, and possibly having a low grade panic attack about being in a mysterious room with someone he  _ hates,  _ but he’s fine. “The world around you, even this room,” Gavin gestures in a way that reminds Richard of boring Sundays with his grandmother and Wheel of Fortune, “is merely code. I’m sure this is something you can understand, you brought up the idea of virtual reality technology yourself. See this pen?” Gavin swipes a pen out of his vest pocket and holds it up. “A  couple dozen lines of code just for the shape, and about a  _ million  _ lines to allow it to write.”

  


“ Okay, haha,” Richard backs up until his back hits a wall, and he (Not so.) calmly feels around for any sort of seam or door handle so he can get out of there as soon as possible, “I get it. The Matrix, right? I was a kid in the nineties Gavin, I  _ know  _ that movie.  And… and you're- you're fucking with me, like always, like- ”

  


“I’m going to derail this little denial train now before you get too far into your ‘I’m correct and you’re not’ mentality, because it’s a load of horse shit. And stop fucking fidgeting so much I’m not saying all this shit to mess with you.”

  


Richard shoves his hands into his pockets and forces himself to stand still, leaning against the wall and putting trying to find some sort of  _ secret passage  _ out of the blank room on hold.

  


Alright, so, simulation. He's in a simulation. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and releases. It doesn't do much to calm him down.


	11. Chapter 11

“I'm a… I'm okay, I'm good. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath again, and this time it helps. “I'm alright. Um, you were talking? Go um… go on, I guess.”

  


“Thank you. For fuck’s sake you’d think you’re being interrogated,” Gavin mutters and stands, walking towards Richard, and the only thing he can think of is that fucking tie before arbitration, before he was fired, before his life became so damn _complicated._ “Richard, me, Nelson, we’re all currently connected to a simulation. Everyone, really, excluding a minority. You were right. And, if you want, you can join us.”

  


“Joi-” Richard bites a knuckle and takes one breath, then another, and he rushes over to the bucket and vomits again.

  


“This is obviously a lot to take in, but if it’s any consolation that vomit is simulated. Carla could, very easily, just remove it from the room and it would be like it was never there, which in reality it isn’t in the first place.”

  


Richard is not ready to fathom any of this, his thoughts aren’t even racing; it’s just a blank page with a buzzing sound, or maybe it’s his stress tinnitus again. But that isn’t real, it’s simulated. The ringing, the vomiting, all simulated and fake but it  _ feels  _ real and Gavin has to be fucking with him but he’s standing here, looking all concerned and offering Richard a rag from  _ fucking nowhere. _

  


He still takes it, and wipes his face. “So, is there some fucking like, pill I have to take or-”

  


“It’s a little more complicated than some fucking pill, but it’s painless.” Good. Simulated or not, God he can’t think about that too hard unless he wants to throw up again, he’s not really looking forward to doing something potentially painful. “We currently have a team on their way to your location. Nelson should be with them.”

  


“ Fuck. He’s… how fucking  _ long _ ?”

  


“Years, if I’m assuming correctly and you’re asking how long he’s known. Richard, you’re going to have a lot of questions, and I’m sure you’re going to have several fits about all this fucking hellstorm, but just, for the love of _fuck_ , try to take a couple deep breaths and sit back because even though it doesn’t hurt it certainly feels fucking weird.”

  


“Wait what? Don’t I get an option or something? Red or Blue?”

  


“ Richard, you’re already vomiting at the idea that you’re in a simulation at all. I’m fairly certain you’d rather, if we’re going to use your simulated life as an example, turn over your algorithm to Hooli than stay in here,  _ knowing  _ it’s all fake. The ‘blue pill’ option doesn’t work near as well if you have a decent level of intelligence, it’ll probably wear off even if you do choose to stay.”

  
Okay, two options. Well, one option with two branches. Either this is real, Gavin is telling the truth, and Richard is going to be royally fucked up when he’s out of the simulation but no longer being lied to by a bunch of computers. Or it’s a lie, Gavin’s just fucking with him, and he’ll get some sick pleasure out of Richard believing him and acting like a complete idiot. Pill-bugging on the floor is sounding more tempting the longer he thinks.

  


“Richard, I’m going to try and utilize to a more benevolent approach, because you’re clearly not handling this well.” Jesus yeah that’s not something he can deny right now even though he wants to. “We’re going to sit here quietly for a little bit until you chill the fuck out. Then, I'll answer any questions you manage to piece together.” Richard nods, jittery and shaking, and not ready _at all_ for whatever he's about to face. “When I get the signal I'll 'red pill' you, and you’re going to wake up in a horrible place, but our team will get you out of there and you’ll be fine. And you’ll have a chance to fucking relax for five minutes, and then you’ll get an explanation for all this.”

  


“Wh-” he takes a couple deep breaths, “what about some sort of distraction?”

  


“ Well, if it doesn’t freak you out that we can play sound from  _ nothing,  _ Carla could play some music.”

  


Richard nods. Ethereal music sounds far more tempting than being alone with his own thoughts. Some soft, folk s y songs start playing,  he thinks of quiet evenings at the Bighetti's house with Bighead; he's working on some random code, possibly an algorithm but most likely some random crap to mess with Bighead, and Bighead is playing his parents' Atari, Dig Dug, and playing soft, folksy music. A nd if Richard ignores the part where there’s no sound system, it certainly does wonders to at least help him  _ pretend  _ to relax. He’ll take what he can get right now.

  


“It's going to take some time. The team couldn't leave until Nelson got back, but your location isn't terribly far from base.” These words don't mean much to Richard right now, but he supposes it's good news. “I'm guessing an hour at most, unless things get a bit complicated.”

 

“Complicated? What are there like, giant metal spider things or something?”

 

“The movie, right? You're referencing the machines.” Gavin sighs. “They're _similar,_ alright? But we're only extracting you if they're not around. Until then, you stay in here.”

 

“Safe, right? Or, I guess, less dangerous.”

 

“Relatively speaking, yes.” He turns to a wall and Richard glances up to see what he's looking at, which turns out to be a small green circle. It flashes a couple times before turning off completely. “They've left. Shouldn't be long now.”

  


God he hopes so.


	12. Chapter 12

He’ll never associate a silence (musically aided or not) with Gavin as peaceful, but if he considers the alternative of Gavin l trying to overload him with new information before he’s damn well ready to handle it (which at the rate he’s going might be never), then the quiet of the blank room is about as comfortable as he’s going to get.

  


But when Richard’s nervous being quiet isn’t always something he can manage, even if Carla’s helping on her end with her speaker-less music. And Richard's curiosity really is one of his greatest downfalls, so he can't resist asking a few questions.

  


“ So, um… Bighead  _ did  _ trick me, right. In the loosest sense of the word, this is a kidnapping.”

  


Gavin lets out a long-suffering sigh and rubs his temples. “Richard, do you  _ want  _ it to be a kidnapping? Because it’s beginning to sound like that’s the case, and I’m not going to get into the obvious past trauma you must be suppressing for that to be an attractive option. You can still leave at any time if you don’t want to ‘wake up’, and no one will stop you. But no one will make you ignorant to what you know either.”

 

He's fairly certain knowing he's in a simulation would drive him off a roof eventually, so, “pass. Or, well, I don't want to stay if I  _ know.”  _ Gavin nods.  “ Aren’t you supposed to give me some sort of empowering speech, like, I don’t know sell me on the idea?” Richard will never admit to wanting a pep talk from Gavin, but he has to admit the man is very good at delivering speeches. “Am I like, ‘the one’?”

  


“ That notion is completely ridiculous, what kind of dumb ass relies on a single person to save the world?” Richard wishes he knew more about the simulation so he could dissolve into the floor. “You’re a smart guy Richard, and we need people like you, but don’t get it in your head that you’re  _ the  _ last hope. I’ll admit, you’re more promising than most, but we’re not going to fucking fall apart if you decide you’re not interested. We’ve made due before, and we will again.”

  


He definitely expected better than ‘you’re slightly above average’ and realizing that even though he’s important, he’s not  _ that  _ important, is kind of sobering. But another part of him is very relieved. Richard isn’t well equipped to have the entire world on his weak, slim shoulders. Can he help? Probably. If the movie really is a good indicator of what he’s going to see in the very near future, then a lot of the behind the scenes work is coding, and that’s something he understands.

  


“Um, so the movie, it’s-”

  


“Sometimes the best lie is the truth, Richard. The easiest way to discount a theory is to make it look ridiculous, even if it’s true. People are very quick to dismiss possibilities when saying them makes you sound like a fucking idiot.”

  


“Yeah, okay.” Richard is far from content, but he’s feeling at least somewhat mollified, and not feeling like he needs to throw up has to count for something. “What if I didn’t, you know, notice?”

  


“ Stop thinking in ‘what ifs’ and focus on the fact where you  _ did  _ notice, because other scenarios don’t matter.”

  


“Well, sure, I get that.”

  


“Imagine it this way Richard. Sure, you could have never noticed, but would your life really be worse for it? You would be here, safe because you're not trying to defect, and who knows, maybe someday you really _would_ be able to make a viable, thriving company here in Silicon Valley. But then we would _want_ you for our team, even more than now, and you'd have to leave all that success, that power, behind. So when you think about it, it's actually _easier_ leaving when your company is essentially doomed.”

  


“It's not… Pied Piper isn't _doomed,_ it's...” but it's not exactly a powerful force either, and Richard _does_ feel a bit better abandoning something he no longer has any say over. “So it was, what? The simulation's idea to keep it afloat?”

  


“Think a bit less about the whole architecture, and more about the _architect._ But yes, most forces above you would've let Pied Piper sink. But making you think it could rebound kept you busy, at least that was the plan.”

  


Richard doesn't like the cold feeling at the back of his neck, the undeniable dread of being  _used,_ even if it was one of his life goals at one point.  He wants to know what  _other_ events in his life influenced him this way, but decides it isn't important for now.

  


“So, about waking up, and spider things,” he's really, _really_ not looking forward to spider robots.

  


“It's a rather crude simplification, but I suppose you could call them that and people would understand what you're talking about.”

  


“Okay, sure, but, _how_ simplified? Like, do they still look like spiders or-”

  


“Richard it's a fucking _sentient machine._ What it looks like really shouldn't have this much influence on whether or not it _terrifies_ you.”

  


“Right, right,” Richard mutters to himself for a couple of seconds as he slowly, _carefully_ lowers himself down to the floor and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up. Gavin is either being very considerate or he's very much _done_ with Richard and his panicked state, because he doesn't say anything to suggest this isn't a perfectly _valid_ use of what could potentially be his last few minutes in the simulation.

  


Richard doesn’t have time to really over-think what he’s going to see because about ten minutes into a pretty impressive shocked silence (Richard is a professional at clamming up when the stress  _ really  _ hits hard) Gavin tells him he’s gotten a signal that the team is in position. And after Gavin uses what looks like a tens unit on the base of his skull Richard is awake for the first time, and the small enclosed space that greets him nearly throws him into a panic spiral.

  


‘ _ Okay, okay, deep, _ ’  he takes a breath in and that oh so familiar drowning dream is suddenly painfully  _ real,  _ and Richard tries holding in the inevitable cough. He presses up on what he hopes is a release, he  _ prays  _ his dream was wrong, and for a moment nothing gives; dread settles somewhere around Richard’s stomach.

  


He tries again, pushing up and away, the container opens up, allowing Richard to sit up and cough properly, taking in his first real breath of air. With his lungs clear and head not spinning near as badly he can take in his surroundings, and he is not a fan. Richard notes what looks like a giant spiderweb, only metal, and the spider has got to be gigantic. Rows and rows of pods line intricate structures; it reminds Richard of one of the nature documentaries from school. He strains his eyes, squinting across the pod field to, what,  _ see  _ the metal spider things  _ before  _ they get to him and kill him? But, thankfully, a ship lands in front of him and unfamiliar faces manhandle him out of the pod and remove, Jesus at least ten different cords attached to his  _ body  _ and start ushering him inside.

  



	13. Chapter 13

He’s naked.

  


It’s obviously not the most important factor here but he’s naked and confused and absolutely mortified. The small blessing is when the two workers who (Nurses? General purpose grunts?) help him onto the ship and into a small room with a cot also give him a blanket to cover up with. It isn’t terribly warm, and the lower half of Richard’s legs aren’t covered, but it’s the closest thing to modesty that Richard can manage right now and that has to count for something.

  


No one’s said a word aside from ‘relax’ and other reiterations, but Richard is able to take a few deep breaths and calm his oversensitive nerves. Neither of the workers try to engage him in conversation, and he’s not sure he could handle talking right now anyway. The simulation felt so damn  _ real,  _ but also, apparently, kept sensation to his real body to a minimum, and it’s left him feeling twitchy and overstimulated just  _ being awake.  _ Richard wishes the blanket was softer, or that the cot didn’t feel so hard and unforgiving. Even on bad days, Richard can remember his simulated bed always feeling comfortable and inviting, and has a moment of horror when he realizes that probably wasn’t an accident.

  


He’s left alone until his ‘liaison’ is ready, (“Just press this button if you need something before he arrives.”) and nervously moves to run his hands through his hair, only to startle when he only feels a light stubble instead of the messy curls he’s used to having. He’d give anything to have a hat right now. Richard remembers in high school when he decided to shave his head and how ill suited his skull is for that kind of look.

  


Does his education even matter anymore?

  


Richard doesn’t get the chance to dwell on the potential uselessness of most of his young life, because the door on the far left slides open and in walks Bighead, looking a bit dressed down compared to what Richard is used to seeing in the simulation and his hair is a bit longer, but the familiar face of his best friend helps settle his nerves from a panicked roar to a not quite content whisper.

  


“Hey man, sorry for all the crazy shit,” Bighead walks over and snorts. Richard assumes it has to do with his lack of hair, and he pulls the blanket over his head. “Dude, it’s totally fine. Everyone’s got the same problem at first.” He sets down a bundle of what looks like clothes and offers Richard a hat, which he takes immediately and jams it over his head. His arms already feel tired from even that little bit of exertion.

  


“You’re wearing glasses.” He’s noticed a few other things, longer hair and his lack of layered clothes, but that’s the most notable.

  


“Right, no contacts available, but they’d be really inconvenient.” Bighead shoves the rest of the clothes into Richard’s arms. “Medical will get a good look at you when we get to the city. In the meantime put on some clothes man. It gets cold in here.”

  


Richard doesn’t even have to ask Bighead to turn around, something he is thankful for. Crazy machine controlled world aside, his best friend is still considerate. He tugs on a long sleeved thermal and a pair of sweatpants, both plain earth tones and far more comfortable than the blanket, which he uses to cover his cold feet. Bighead begins humming as he looks over some of the supplies on the shelving around the room, and stops in front of a shelf with bed items (Pillows and blankets.) and grabs a big stack to carry over.

  


“I dunno if you’ll be able to sleep at all, but you should at least try.” Nelson throws the pile of bedsheets and pillows on top of Richard. He starts to protest, but the blankets are warm and the pillows are far more comfortable than just the cot on its own. “Your actual liaison’s not on the ship. I’m like a stand in, but Gavin figured you’d prefer it was me and not some stranger.”

  


Richard decides to keep his shock that Gavin Belson is on  _his_ side. It's disconcerting  _and_ a strange comfort, to know that Bighead hasn't been swayed to some dark side but that apparently, Gavin was rooting for him all along.

“Is he the leader or something?”

  


“Or something. We’ll get you properly introduced to people when we get home, okay? Well, not like, introduced, but, it’s sort of like an introduction, since you only knew them in the simulation.” Bighead holds out a hand to Richard, and he blinks at it, wondering what Bighead could possibly want. “Nelson Bighetti. Good to meet you in person man, seriously.”

  


Richard weakly grasps Bighead’s right hand and gives it a small shake, and right after he tugs Bighead forward into a hug. His arms are pitifully out of shape, Richard’s not sure he could manage to even walk around right now, but Bighead doesn’t put up any resistance to Richard manhandling him, and he feels the rest of his anxiety ease to his normal level of not-chill when strong arms hug him back.

  


Waitaminute.

  


“Dude are you like, fuck are you ripped?” Richard sits back enough to get a better look at Bighead’s arms, which are, in fact, far more well muscled than Richard has ever seen. His shirt is tight over his torso and arms, and Richard can see muscle definition through the stretched out fabric.

  


“Oh, um, kind of.”

  


Richard is fairly certain Bighead doesn't have any right to look embarrassed about actually having muscles, especially while Richard is sitting here with wimpy arms and legs he’s only used for about an hour, two tops. And he’s  _ bald.  _ He really hopes it’s just a factor of whatever stasis equipment kept him going in the pod, because from what Richard’s seen of the others no one else is hairless.

  


“Dude, that’s so unfair.”

  


“ Richard you were in a  _ pod.  _ No one expects you to be buff.” He’s sure that’s supposed to make him feel better but he can’t shake the part where his obvious nerdiness is a likely factor in people’s assumptions about his lack of muscle tone. “We’ll get you in the gym, maybe do some cardio and stretching because believe me, you are  _ going  _ to feel stiff tomorrow. Nothing’s near as gentle on joints after you’ve been floating in water.”

  
He’s not looking forward to joint pain, or sleeping on a hard cot with barely any room to stretch out on, or a lot of other things he’s already thought of the worse case scenario for, but Richard is glad that Bighead’s here with him to help lessen all the confusion. Even if he's adding a bit _more._

  


“So does everyone work out? Because that doesn't sound great, and I thought, well, I figured I'd be coding here, you know, _actually_ using my strengths?”

  


“No, not everyone, just if you want.” He doesn't remember Bighead ever _wanting_ to work out but he files that away for now. “Dude, you look _wiped._ Seriously, you should try to sleep.” Richard wants to protest. He wants to pick Bighead’s brain the whole way back to ‘home’ wherever that is, but Bighead is apparently a lot stronger than Richard even if he wasn’t feeling floppy and fatigued, and he has no trouble making Richard lie down with at least four blankets piled on top of him. “I’ll stick around, okay? And I promise, I’ll start explaining more once we get home.”

  


“Who’s all there?” Richard murmurs. He hates that he’s already so drowsy, but he’s pretty content with his bed now that he’s surrounded by heat and pillows. “I mean-”

  


“I know, and I’ll tell you later, okay? You’ll probably forget right now.”

  


Richard thinks that’s a load of shit. He has an excellent memory even when he is sleep deprived, but the light above his cot is turned off and Richard can feel sleep pulling him under before he can even formulate a proper argument.


	14. Chapter 14

Massages are one of the few things Richard loves in theory but hates in practice. It's supposed to be relaxing, and good for you, and any number of things that Richard can one hundred percent accept as fact, but that doesn't mean he can justify it enough to let his brain just chill for a half hour and  _ actually  _ get a massage. He can’t stand the idea of a complete stranger  _ touching his body,  _ and it’s even worse at those places that want you to take off your clothes. No, Richard Hendricks will probably never enjoy a full body massage.

  


But he’s starting to wish he was more comfortable with the idea because he has never, in all his years in the simulation, felt as sore as he does right now.

  


Richard wakes when the ship ungracefully docks with a shudder and metal scraping against metal, a jarring landing that nearly knocks him out of the cot, and immediately he groans as one of the most intense aches of his life settles into all of his joints at once. Bighead offers to carry him, jokingly, and Richard is mildly depressed that Bighead could probably lug him around easily between his apparent strength and Richard’s lack of any sort of substance or body fat. He manages to walk the short distance to medical, and is surprised to find a familiar face in a white lab coat instead of her pink robe, and a definite lack of glittery rings and other embellishments Tara had in the simulation.

 

“So you're like- I mean I know I sort of met you but-”

 

“Just call me Tara,” she holds out a hand. He expects her to shake but she pinches the skin at one of his knuckles instead and tuts. “You're a bit dehydrated.  How are you feeling? Did you eat anything on the way over here?”

  


“No, I slept.” He’s not sure if he should have eaten, but the mention of food makes his stomach growl. He’s never truly eaten in his life. He’s only a little worried food won’t hold up to his memories, but taste has never really been something he focuses on as long as whatever he's eating is filling.

  


Except cilantro. He doesn't care if he'd vomit for a full day; Richard would  _ kill  _ for something with cilantro on it right now.

  


“That’s great. Sleep is really the best thing for you right now.” 

 

Tara does everything Richard remembers that crock doctor doing in the clinic; blood pressure, heart rate, at some point he's on his back and she's palpitating his stomach (he's not super thrilled but Tara seems to know what she's doing).  His height is predictable, weight atrocious but apparently not unexpected from her lack of shock, and even though he  _ hates  _ having to be naked in front of someone he's glad she doesn't say anything except for an exact play by play of her exam.

 

She hums along as she prepares a needle of something Richard is already not a fan of just because of its delivery system, and steps close to his arm. “ I'm just going to give you a-”  He shies away and she asks, “are you afraid of needles?”

  


Richard thinks no, he’s not afraid, he’s just entirely uncertain how pain will feel in the real world, and the idea of it being ten times worse than any simulated flu shot makes him feel uneasy. “I’ve never really… I’ve never had an  _ actual  _ shot, outside the, you know-”

  


“Oh! Right, it’s okay Richard. They feel about the same as they did in the simulation. You're low on basically everything, those pods are pretty minimalist on the wellness angle, but this will help.” He doesn’t get a chance to protest (he wouldn't say no, he wants to not feel like garbage and if this helps he's all for it, but he's always been anxious about getting shots) before she’s already done giving him the injection. “That was just a vitamin injection to get you jump started. Food will help, but so far everything is on par with the others. But you better tell me if you feel sick okay? You're immune system will need some help.”

  


“I’m kind of nauseated,” he admits. He was hoping his anxiety would go away once he arrived, but the view of the city he got on the way from the hanger was overwhelming at best and absolutely terrifying at worst. “And I guess um, anxious? I was hoping that was a simulation thing.”

  


“Well, it sort of is, but the simulation only uses what you provide it.” She offers him a glass of water, and he takes it, frowning at the strain it’s putting on his arm. “Sip, don’t gulp. You’re going to have trouble eating a lot at first. And the anxiety should settle once you’re properly acclimated, okay? But if it doesn’t get your butt back in here.”

  


“Yeah, thanks,” he takes a small sip of water. It’s strange to think this is his first drink, and he’s mildly disappointed that it doesn’t taste better. “Um, so I’m supposed to have a liaison or something? But they weren’t on the ship, and Bighead’s not here so… who is that exactly?”

  


“I’ll call him over, how about that? You’ll need to get moved into your apartment space.”

  


He finds it mildly amusing that this will be the first space he’s lived in on his own, and rather terrifying. “There isn’t like, rent or anything right?”

  


“No, don’t you worry, as long as you’re helping out around the city, after you get plenty of rest, you’ll probably help Carla in technical. That’s how ‘rent’ works here, basically. Your liaison will go over procedures and where everything is later. First though, we want you to get settled. Usually your first two weeks here are recovery time.”

  


“Okay, good.” He can be useful, and if the simulation is any indication to how real world coding still works, then he has a firm metaphorical leg to stand on, minus the noodle legs he’s currently dealing with. “Is there anything to do about being sore? Bighead told me it’s normal but it sucks.”

  


“Donald’ll be able to help you with some stretches. And warm showers should help.”

  


“Donald, okay.” Richard nods into his cup and takes another sip.


	15. Donald

He needs to be professional. He is a liaison, an ambassador for those individuals that have only previously lived within the simulation. Being one of the few that was awakened as a teenager, he’s very well acquainted with how the real world operates, so to speak, and Donald is proud to say he’s never disappointed any new residents with his tour and answering any questions that come his way, ranging from completely mundane to potentially life or death situations. There is no silly question, and all concerns are valid.

  


But this is Richard and he is  _ so  _ excited to see him in the real world, and for Richard to see him. He wishes he could  ha ve gone when they retrieved Richard from the pod farm, but he has other duties, and a weak flying stomach. No, his talents are best served within the city where he can use his long legs and height to his full advantage, not cramped in a small shuttle that is less than accommodating for those above six foot two.

  


Donald takes a deep breath to calm himself, and puts on a pleasant smile before pushing open the door to medical. He waves to Tara, who is currently writing out some paperwork (Or doodling, but he’s always liked to err on the productive even if things don’t look like they’re outwardly progressing.) and then turns to the gurney in the main room.

  


His breath catches, and Donald realizes he’s been so excited about seeing Richard that he forgot to be nervous and mentally prepare for the state he would find Richard in, i.e. his pale skin and the hat covering his current lack of hair. And he looks very tired, more than even simulation Richard on all-night coding sessions for his app.

  


He has the sudden urge to hug him, but Donald keeps himself in check. He’s the professional here, and he needs to do his job.

  


“Richard?” He calls out and Richard looks up, and his eyes widen in shock. “Hello.”

  


And Donald’s entire spiel just flies out of his head. He’s supposed to welcome Richard, to make him feel cared for and offer an inviting hand to guide him around, and all he can do is stare as Richard opens and closes his mouth a few times.

  


“J… Jared?”

  


“Donald, actually,” he’s not used to having to correct this anymore, he’s allowed Richard to call him Jared for so long while they were in the simulation together. It’s going to be a tough habit to break. “Many of the names you’re familiar with in the simulation aren’t common here. But if you have a hard time making the switch you may still call me Jared.”

  


“Jared.”

  


“Yes,” he walks over to the gurney and has the urge to check Richard for a fever, which is ridiculous. Tara just finished her exam and she would’ve informed Donald if Richard was getting sick. “I know this is very jarring, and if you’re feeling at all uncomfortable rest assured that you’re not the first, nor will you be the last. It should pass soon.”

  


Richard looks like he’s somewhere in between relieved and heartbroken, and Donald isn’t sure what kind of affection or care he’ll be welcome to, but Richard is the one to lean his face against Donald’s torso, so he infers that a simple hug will be more than sufficient.

  


“ Oh, thank  _ fuck _ ,” Richard sounds rather distraught, Donald rubs his back a bit to help calm him, but when he sits up again his eyes aren’t wet. “Jesus, you have… fuck I didn’t want to think about people still in there but… but it’s-”

  


“If you want to ask about anyone specifically I can get you some information. Nelson informed me that he insisted you sleep on the ride in, which is the ideal, although he was unable to answer any of your questions because of it.”

  


“You’re here,” Richard reiterates, and the relief in his voice makes Donald flush. “And Bighead, and Tara. Who else?”

  


“Well, if you’re meaning from your current circle of companions, myself and Nelson, Bertram and Dinesh are part of Carla’s tech team, you’ve seen Tara obviously, Gavin, although based on your interactions inside the simulation I doubt you’d consider him a companion, although he is a regular person in your day to day interactions.”

  


“Um, what about Erlich? And Monica?”

 

“Ah,” Donald sits back. He’s not looking forward to this explanation, but he is not going to leave Richard wondering about the people he knows. “Well, Erlich and Monica are not here. Monica because of a number of factors, and Erlich opted to be um, he is an important part of our team, certainly, but his area of expertise requires he be inside the simulation in order to properly carry out his duties. I’m sorry, I think it would be better if someone else explained his role.”

  


“So they’re just, not here? I can’t see them again?”

  


“Well, I suppose that is somewhat true.” Richard frowns, a deep, unhappy frown Donald hasn’t seen in ages. He has an urge to reach out and hug him again, but he refrains. A clarification is in order. “But Richard, you can always interact with them in the simulation. It will require you go back in, but it is a possibility.”

  


Richard nods, although he doesn’t look happy. “Richard, it’s alright,” he puts a hand on Richard’s arm and guides him to stand. “How about I get you to your room, and you can get some more rest. And I’ll stay if you want some company.”

  


“I think,” Donald braces himself to the rejection, but instead Richard answers, “company sounds good. Being alone sounds kind of terrifying right now.”

  


“Of course,” he’s elated, and Donald allows (feels incredibly honored that Richard would put so much trust in him and nearly faints) Richard to wrap his arms around his right arm, leaving his left to deal with doors. “And if you’re feeling up to eating we can get you something from one of the cafeterias on the way.”


	16. Chapter 16

It's a pleasant surprise when the cafeteria they stop at isn't just a glorified gruel stand and has some  _actual_ food. Richard knows he won't eat much for a multitude of reasons; he's looking forward to the day when he starts feeling like he isn't made of limp noodles.

  


Jared. Donald, he's not going to manage that one for awhile, nudges him and recommends, “the soup is probably your best option, having just woken up, but it's your choice.”

  


“No, that sounds alright.” He holds out a hand to grab his container of food, but Jared beats him to it and points Richard in the right direction. “I can carry that.”

  


“Nonsense, I am a liaison, and it's my job to ensure you reach your new home safely and without putting any unnecessary strain on your person.” Jared points with the soup, indicating they take a right on a curved walkway with doors on the left and a railing overlooking some of the lower levels on the right. “You can put in a request to have a place on a different floor, but we like to keep people in recovery on the same floor as medical.”

  


“Is that how stuff works? Requests?”

  


“Partly. Incidentals, rooms, and most other non-food essentials are in the request system. But if you go to Tara she can bypass that if you need any sort of pain medication in the near future. Meals are available to you three times in a twenty four hour period. If you need any sort of snack that actually _is_ an incidental, my apologies, I don't want to be confusing-”

  


“I'm okay, Jared.” Honestly Jared has been making the most sense out of anyone so far. He can handle simple instructions, it's all the abstract thinking that's being asked of him that's throwing him for a loop.

  


“Donald, it's alright, I understand you're very used to referring to me by that name.” Richard makes a mental note to try a bit harder when he's not feeling so _exhausted._ Donald. Donald. Donal- “Richard? We're here.”

  


It's anticlimactic, reaching out and opening the metal door to his unit; he's not sure why but Richard kind of wanted the door to be a bit more high tech than a metal security door.  He hones in on the bed and, with the last of his energy, wobbles his way over to it and sits down with a sigh, feeling all the aches and pains settle.

  


“Bighead wasn't kidding about being sore, Jesus _fuck.”_ Richard rubs his neck. “Tara said you'd help?”

  


“Yes, and although you've called him Bighead for quite some time, that isn't a terribly common nickname here. But if it bothers him I'm sure he will speak to you at a later time.”

  


“Next you're going to tell me Gilfoyle isn't Gilfoyle, right?” Jared bites his lip and Richard isn't sure _why_ his hopes feel like they're shredded to pieces, but they are. He rubs his chest. “He isn't, is he?”

  


“I often refer to him as Bertram, yes. But Carla calls him Gilfoyle, and I'm certain he would also speak his mind if it bothered him.” Jared- Donald, fuck he'll never get that right, not consistently, and certainly anytime soon. _Donald_ sits on the bed beside Richard and gently rests a hand on Richard's shoulder. “But Richard, these are just monikers. _You_ could decide you no longer want to be called Richard, and I'm sure everyone would respect that. The way people present themselves in the simulation doesn't have to match up with how they present themselves here.”

  


Richard nods. He wants to scream a little, or freak out, or have some other sort of childish tantrum. He doesn't _want_ anything to be different, not with his friends. He can't change the world to suit his wishes, and now, apparently, he can't even call his friends names he's been using for months, or in Bighead's case _years._

  


He doesn't know how to even begin ranting about this, so he focuses on spooning the soup into his mouth.

  


“I'm sure you'll acclimate Richard, and I said before, it's alright if you still call me Jared sometimes. I just ask that you make a conscious effort to think of me as Donald.”

  


“Yeah, okay,” his voice cracks and Richard winces. He's known this was bound to happen sooner or later, but he's not willing to have a meltdown in front of Ja-Donald. Definitely not Donald. “Um, I'm kind of tired so-”

  


“Of course Richard,” J-D-he gets up from the bed and walks over to the door. “Tomorrow we can get you some more clothes and I'll show you the request process, if you're feeling up to it of course. If you would like to rest I understand.”

  


“That's fine, yeah,” he sniffs and wills _Donald_ away with his mind while also hoping he looks apologetic about his flip-flopping. He'd _wanted_ the company, but now he can't stand the thought.

  


“Sleep well, Richard. Oh, and if you need any water the tap in your bathroom is potable. And if you need something urgent you can use this here,” he points to a small console on the wall, “to page for some assistance. The first button is Tara in medical.”

  


Richard doesn't say anything more, and _he_ leaves after a small, awkward wave and a tight upturn of the corners of his mouth, not quite a smile, but Richard assumes he's figured out why Richard's insisting he have some privacy.

  


He's Jared, but he's not _Jared._ But that awkward wave, the over-politeness and gentle nature, that's still there. It doesn't help much, but it certainly doesn't make him feel _worse._ It's probably just shock, or something less life-threatening. Anxiety, probably, Tara did say he might still feel anxious.

  


For a moment he considers going back to medical, but if Richard is honest with himself he's not sure he can manage the walk over there. He decides to eat some more, knowing it's always helped in the past, and he makes a mental note to take a hot shower before letting his panic win and cause a scene.

  


Richard takes a few more minutes to eat his soup, grimacing at the rapidly cooling temperature but hungry enough to stomach around half of the noodles and broth. He has a feeling he shouldn't waste food, but also has no fridge of any kind, so he puts the lid back on and sets it on his desk. He'll ask Jared (he wants to respect his wishes but he _needs_ to think of him as Jared for right now) tomorrow.

  


Now a shower, yes, that should help. The steam helps his throat and the heat will help with the aches.

  


It's a modest bathroom, similar to the one he- no, bad, he shouldn't compare this to the simulation. It's a bathroom, and it's small but it has a toilet, sink, and shower, and that's all he's ever really needed in a bathroom. Richard turns on the water and waits for it to warm up, and he takes a moment to look in the mirror.

  


A part of him was worried about his appearance, but with the hat on and thermal clothes it isn't so bad. He's thin, more than he likes and certainly more than he ever was in simulation, but Bighead can probably help him get some muscle tone. And once his stomach can handle more than tiny portions he'll put on weight. And the hair, well, he can feel the faintest start of stubble, so he won't have to be bald for too long.

  


After he's undressed he's unwilling to look at himself again, so Richard climbs into the stall. He rests his forehead on the wall opposite the shower head and lets the water run down his back and ease some of the tension and ache from his shoulders. When he runs his hands over his arms he feels round, cold metal, and he has to force his shaking hands to his sides to keep himself from picking at the ports. He can't remove them, he knows that, but they're strange and foreign and he hates that they're there.

  


He cries, a little, just feeling overwhelmed and very unsure of himself. The steam makes his nose run, or maybe that's the tears, he's not really in the mood to pinpoint a cause. Richard sniffs and wipes his eyes; he also yawns, and accepts that it's probably a sign that he should get in bed soon so he doesn't pass out.

  


The tears don't stop when he turns off the water, or as he dries himself off with a towel. It's not pressing enough to drag himself over to medical, and even though all he's done is sleep he's still exhausted. He redresses in his clothes from before and crawls into his new bed, intending to sleep until either someone comes to show him around or he wakes up on his own. He feels bad for longing for his old bed, but it's not the bed, it's the routine, the comfort of knowing what's coming next. Richard misses his routine. He's homesick, but he's not sure what home even is anymore, and he falls asleep before he can decide.


	17. Chapter 17

Richard never thought he would see the day when he managed to sleep twelve hours straight, but he also didn’t think he was living in a simulation, so the shock he feels from looking at the small clock in his room blinking 12:23 pm isn’t nearly as jarring. And sleeping that long comes with the added bonus of no longer feeling like he’s been lifting a thousand pound weights, but with the trade off that he is now fully aware of the lack of tone all of his major muscle groups have.

  
The space is bare, with only a few minimalistic pieces of furniture and no carpet, but the mattress is relatively comfortable and the blankets kept him plenty warm throughout the night. He finds himself missing his old bed less, which is a relief. Richard makes a mental note to ask about decorating his unit once Jared arrives.

  


And to stop thinking Jared instead of Donald. He feels bad about calling him the wrong name, even though simulation Jared was more than happy to accept his new identity.

  


Or maybe he wasn't.

  


Richard agonizes over Ja-Donald and wearing the same clothes again and _how the fuck is he supposed to page him_ when there's a gentle chime throughout his unit. He licks his lips, wishing for some sign that this is actually a doorbell like he hopes, and inevitably gives up and opens the door. It's Jared, Donald, fuck, he resolves to get better about that but maybe it's okay if he calls him Jared for a few more days. Just until he's adjusted to his new home.

  


It should only take a few days; he's surrounded by familiar people and that has to count for something.

  


Jared's eyes are droopy and a little tired, but he smiles  at Richard. “ I wasn't sure if you were still asleep, I apologize if I woke you.”

  


“No, no I was up,” barely, but he was already awake so it counts, “and I guess a little hungry. Oh, um… I don't have a fridge? And I couldn't eat everything. But it's like… it's bad to waste right? Of course it is, but-”

  


“Right, it's fine Richard. Yes, I suppose you're correct, but eating is difficult at first. We can find you something less perishable next time.”

  


“Good, good,” he fidgets with the ends of his sleeves. “So um… I have like, no clothes. Or any clue about well, fuck, _anything._ I kind of remember the food thing, but, yeah. Not much.”

  


“Well,” Jared chuckles, “I suppose I'll have to start with the basics.”

  


He leads Richard down a walkway and over to a plastic sign. “We've found it very useful to have a physical map on each level, especially for new arrivals, since this area can be rather disorienting.”

  


“Yeah, circles do that,” Richard starts scanning the map and makes a mental note of his unit. “So, it's like, U means unit? And then a number?”

  


“Precisely. Yours is U37 on this floor, which is the third, easy enough, and if you're ever lost just find the units on the floor, which are always on the East facing arch, stacked on all floors.”

  


Jared explain s the map system very thoroughly, and compared it to the maps found at shopping malls meets the Dewey decimal system. Like items by like items, with the only exception being food, which appears to be spread evenly throughout  the colony.  He's still pleasantly surprised to see it isn't all just oatmeal or some sort of protein mush. Richard makes a note to ask about  _how_ that's possible at a later time.

  


Richard nods. “Okay, yeah, makes sense.”

  


“And, oh, if you could step near the wall for a moment.” Jared ushers Richard to stand by the wall, and Richard starts to ask why until he can hear the thundering of several feet coming from his right. When he looks, part of him is expecting to see some sort of emergency team, but it's just people jogging, all in workout clothes, and Bighead is leading the group, jogging along with giant headphones firmly attached to his head, calling out speed up as the group passes Richard and Jared's place by the wall. “You'll want to keep an eye out for different groups like this. The walkways are an excellent jogging track, given their circular nature.”

  


Richard feels a pang, confusion, and he's a bit disappointed that Bighead didn't say hello. He's fairly certain he's never seen Bighead jog before in his life.

  


But he shakes the feeling, tells himself that Bighead (working out, sweaty, ponytail and glasses wearing aside) is Bighead, and they can meet up later when Bighead isn't busy and Richard isn't feeling like falling over.

  


“Say um, Jared I'm kind of tired and,” he knows he just woke up but he's already walked at least a football field's length and it's exhausting, “well, I guess I really just wanted more clothes. These are going to get gross really fast.”

  


“Right, excellent point. And if you're feeling up to it, we can get your incidentals all in order as well.” Richard nods. He _would_ like to take a shower with soap, and brush his teeth, and eventually he's going to need to shave his face. “Let's get to it.”

  


Jared help s Richard put in a request for more clothing, which  is Richard's goal of the day, and it only took about an hour for the request to go through the system, no doubt partially due to the fact that Richard is one of the few recent wake ups and everyone else seems to be very set in their ways in regards to clothing. Everything Richard has seen people wearing has been practical, from Bighead's tight knits to Jared's sweater and cargo pants, and even his own sweats and thermal. They're warm and easy to move in, nothing restricting or ill fitted for any sort of manual labor.  And he assumes that people only put requests for new clothing in once their old ones start to fall apart.

  


During the request Richard mentioning getting cold easy, he isn't even sure if that's true yet but he's cold now and that's all that matters, and Jared nodded understandingly and had added a jacket to Richard's list.  And the second his jacket was available Richard pulled it on, secretly pleased that it's very similar to his old ones. It's warm and comfortable, and when Richard shoves his hands into the pockets and hugs his sides with his elbows he feels a familiar comfort start to ease his anxiety.

  


R ichard expected to have to put in some sort of request for the hygiene items as well, but Jared leads him back to medical, to a smiling and welcoming Tara. “It's Tara's area, on her request.”

  


“Nobody believes me when I say it makes my job easier, but it _really_ does. Everything is allergy friendly and _believe_ me, if you think dandruff can't interfere with some of the equipment around here you haven't heard Bertram complaining.”

  


Richard's just glad he doesn't have to admit to sometimes having a dry scalp and accepts his toiletries without a word.

  


H e spends the better part of his, well not morning because he woke up after noon but it takes a few hours for Jared to show Richard everything around his new home.  And Jared lets  Richard take his time,  allowing him all the time he needs to soak up every last piece of information as it's presented to him, and when they stop for lunch he's feeling that familiar overwhelmed feeling creeping up again.

  


But he's learned so much, and even though it's a lot to take in it's a welcome distraction. Richard has a clear goal in mind: become comfortable in his new setting and help in any way he can. And this, this is a good first step.  Maybe even several steps. His unit is going to actually feel like a home if he has any say.

  


During  a  _very_ late lunch (it's dinner really, but he had breakfast during lunch, so lunch during dinner) Richard is more tired than hungry, but he makes himself eat because he knows that one, he's tired  _because_ he's hungry and two, the more he eats regularly the better his anxious feelings are. But it doesn't stop him from excusing himself to his room for a long nap.

  


“Are you feeling up for anything else today Richard.”

  


He shakes his head, a bit embarrassed that Jared had actually snapped him out of a daze just now, and a bit worried he's going to fall asleep standing up at this rate.  “I just feel tired, you know? It's, well a lot to take in.”

  


“Of course. And we've accomplished a great deal today.” Jared puts his hand on Richard's shoulder. “I'm pleased with your progress. If you're feeling well settled we could meet some of the others tomorrow.

  


“Yeah, maybe, and,” he hums, “do you, I don't know, do people like, decorate or anything? It just kind of reminds me of college right now.”

  


And that's it, that's probably the anxiety he's feeling. This all feels kind of like a college, certainly not the one he went to, but the idea is the same.

  


“Oh, yes, of course. Those requests are usually for salvage team, but if you have anything in mind there's a storage room you can dig around in to see if anything catches your eye.”

  


“Good, good, yeah, thanks, by the way. For showing me around. I know it's a pain.”

  


“Not at all.” Jared smiles. “It's my job to make sure people feel acclimated.”

  


“And well, we're friends so, it's nice, having someone I know helping out.” Jared practically _beams_ , he looks so pleased. Richard smiles back, it's hard not to when Jared looks that happy.

  


_It'll be okay._ Richard thinks.  _Jared's here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're going to notice the chapter count went up. That's because I shotgunned that first number and, based on a planning doc, it was a tad off.


	18. Chapter 18

If Richard considered his first night here a good night's sleep, then he would most likely label last night's as sub-par. Not bad, he didn't have any sort of nightmare, but he  _did_ wake up a few times to toss and turn, and it leaves him feeling groggy and irritable as he struggles to start up his morning routine.

  


First, a shower, and he never thought mild soap would feel so great but it  _does_ , and his  grogginess is down to  a mildly tired feeling. But his irritability is  _worse_ somehow;  he throws his toothpaste tube at the wall when he can't open the shrink wrap around the cap. It hits the floor with a clatter and ends up behind his sink, and the mild hysterics he'd thought he'd dealt with his first night start trying to come back full force.

  


H e knows it isn't the toothpaste's fault. Or anything's fault really,  but it's nice to have a focal point, something to blame, and that damn toothpaste tube is going to take the brunt of his frustration (tears) until he feels willing to interact with other people.

  


Which leads to him curling up under his blanket for an hour and hiding his face in his pillow, but he's okay, he's fine.  Or he will be soon (he hopes), and getting out of his unit might be  for the best right now. And he's been kind of anxious about seeing everyone outside of the simulation for the first time, so the longer he waits the more anxious he'll get.

  


T oday Jared shows up before noon, and the quiet chime of his door snaps him out of his funk enough to drag himself back out of bed and over to the door.

  


“Richard, good morning,” Jared gestures to the hall and Richard follows, “how are you feeling?”

  


“Fine, you know, slept like shit but,” Jared stops them in the hall, looking concerned and unhappy at the mere _thought_ that Richard isn't feeling well. He shrugs, “I think I'm just hungry.”

  


“Yes of course,” Jared doesn't look any less happy, but he starts walking and Richard follows, “and afterward we could meet with some of the others. But only if you're feeling up to it, of course. It's your choice.”

  


“I'm ready,” or, even if he isn't he knows waiting more will just make it worse, “is Bighead going to be there?”

  


He's also hoping Jared will stick around, but he's a little embarrassed about that, so he keeps it to himself. It's not that he  _needs_ him there, but he doesn't  _need_ to wear a hat right now either; that doesn't mean he's going to start walking around without a hat until after his hair grows longer.

  


“If you would like, yes.” Jared stops them outside a door Richard hasn't been through, but he assumes it's some sort of meeting room. “Richard, you don't have to hide any negative feelings you're having. It's actually more unusual that you _aren't_ feeling upset.”

  


“I'm just, you know, I want to see the guys.” And he's upset. He can't figure out exactly _why_ he's upset at this moment, but he files it under 'waking up to a semi-postapocalyptic world and still trying to adjust' in his mental filing cabinet of things that fuck up his otherwise relatively chill (mild anxiety riddled) mental state.

  


“Well, if that's the case, then we should get started.” Jared opens the door to what is actually a giant workspace full of electronic equipment. On the back wall in front of a large set of monitors sits, “Carla? I have Richard here with me.”

  


“Richie,” she swivels her chair, which looks like a few parts are held together with scrap metal and some messy welding, and sits back, one leg crossing over the other and a gentle flick of her head to the side to move her hair (minus the colored portion but her haircut is similar) away from her face, “been awhile since we 'saw' each other huh?” She reaches out a hand and smacks his into a handshake, he chuckles a bit as some of his anxiety settles when Carla is, well, Carla. “I see you got saddled with little Donnie here. Bet your legs are tired trying to keep up with Stilts here.”

  


“Ha, yes, I do have a fairly long stride,” Jared laughs, and it's not that fake, oh you're making fun of me kind of laugh. It's real, and he and Carla continue to banter, “and, well, I suppose it's better _I_ show Richard around. We wouldn't want you both getting lost.”

  


“One time I get lost, _one time_.” She nudges Jared's leg.

  


“So uh, you guys,” Richard points to the two of them, “what's going on?”

  


“Me and Donnie go _way_ back, Richard. I've been putting up with this guy since he was only _half_ a giraffe.” Carla stands, shoves Jared playfully, and crosses her arms, taking in Richard's appearance no doubt.

  


“I always was rather tall,” Jared elaborates, as if _that_ is the thing that confuses Richard.

  


H e steps back, motioning to a chair, and the two fall into easy conversation. Like old friends,  _good friends;_ people that have grown up together. Jared doesn't have any sort of tight uneasiness in his shoulders, no overly formal dance about being around a woman. Richard isn't too fond of this little surprise, not because he doesn't think Jared should have friends, but because he  _thought_ they only met about two months ago, and from what he's seeing, it's more like  _years._

  


“Richard, hey man,” Bighead enters the room sometime during Richard's transition from thoughts about just how long has Jared been Carla's friend and whether or not _everyone_ has been friends without him. He hums and shrugs, “what's going on?”

  


“So, uh, Jared and well, Carla,” he waves, “what is that?”

  


“Uh, it's _friendship,_ dude.” Bighead chuckles. “Seriously, don't stress about it. They've known each other a long time. So have we, right?” Richard nods. “Don't over think it dude.”

  


“Yeah but, they acted like they were strangers-”

  


“It's… complicated. Well, not terribly complicated but, dude, just trust me okay? Donald's usually not in the simulation much, not until he was helping you. And Peter said it would be an 'unnecessary connection' and things would get too convoluted.”

  


“Yeah, okay.” Richard nods. “Wait, Peter?”


	19. Chapter 19

I t's- it's him. Peter, he. He's-

  


Richard is very,  _very_ aware of the fact that he's having a not so low grade panic attack on the floor right now. And Jared is there, and Bighead, and even though they're his  _friends_ they're not helping  _at all._ Because, because they're all  _different,_ and  _strange,_ and he just… he just wants to go home, but not  _simulation_ home, he just wants to go somewhere that feels like home.

  


“Hay man, hey, Richard,” he focuses up at Bighead for a moment, notes the glasses and hides again, but that's not so different, and Bighead needing contacts isn't new. Early mornings after an all night movie marathon, or when he inevitably forgot his contact solution, Richard often found his friend wearing glasses similar to his pair now. “I know, dude, _we all know_ seeing him alive is like, super crazy for you. Okay? _We get it._ ”

  


Richard isn't really sure any of the people in this room have ever essentially seen a ghost, and watching Peter Gregory walk through the door into the coding room was definitely not something he ever expected to have to deal with. Overall, Richard is going to say he's not handling this well.

  


“Richard,” it's Jared, and he touches Richard's back, his thumb moving back and forth, “Richard, if you're feeling at all nauseated we have a trash receptacle ready for you.”

  


Great, yeah, this is  _just_ what he wanted to hear right now.

  


“Dude, Donald, I think I can handle this yeah? I've seen it plenty,” Richard can't even argue that, because he's definitely gone to Bighead the longest for his panicked states, long before he even knew what they were, “I think I know what Richard needs, okay? Just, everybody leave the room for a few minutes.”

  


“Nel, really, I can't just leave the monitors-”

  


“You know what I meant Carla just, unnecessary people, go,” he gets up and shoos people towards the door. “If we really need someone I'll call Tara down here okay?”

  


Richard hugs his arms tighter around his torso, gripping his opposite shoulders and biting his lip to keep from making any embarrassing noises or throwing up on the coding room floor.  He's never been more embarrassed in his life (that's a lie, he  _vividly_ remembers a certain college breakdown  _years_ after it happened) and so many people saw it happen.  Carla isn't staring at him  at least , she's actually turned back to her monitors,  and Richard is grateful she's giving him some space. Bighead drags a chair over so he can sit beside Richard.

  


“So Richard, I guess you weren't quite ready to meet Peter here. Probably my bad, maybe Donald's, whichever dude, we're sorry. But there's not like, a good way to really prepare you for that.”

  


“Words, maybe,” Richard takes a deep breath, and then another, “or, I don't know, some _fucking warning_?” He _hates_ the whine, _hates_ his over-anxious brain, _**hates** _ all this change all at once.

  


“Right, guess hindsight blah blah blah, really though, our bad,” Bighead winces and offers his hand to Richard, the other scratching at his hair, dislodging some of the curls from his hair band, “sorry dude, really. Haven't gotten a chance to, you know, hang out since you've gotten here, never got the chance to tell you.” Richard takes the hand, but doesn't say anything about not spending time together. He knows he's been with Jared learning about this place, but _Jared_ could have given him the warning too. “No excuses, alright? I get it, you're freaking out. This is _huge_ for you. Bigger than any shit you've been through before.”

  


He nods and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “It  _sucks_ .”

  


“Yeah, dude. I _get_ it, okay?  Waking up is kind of shitty at first.” Bighead rubs the inside of his elbow, straightening what looks like an elbow pad, and pats his hand on top of Richard's. “Look, Peter's probably too much for you right now, but want to see the others? Dinesh and them, you know, the guys.”

  


“Um, yeah, I think.” He's not sure he's ready for this either, but at least he knows to expect Dinesh and Gilfoyle. “Maybe not Gavin? He's here somewhere right?”

  


“Yeah, but he's probably running around for assault team. Don't worry about it, he's still Gavin but he's also on our side.” Richard nods, thankful that Bighead knows him so well, knows what things are bothering him the most. “Seeing Dinesh and Gilfoyle shouldn't be too crazy.”

  


“Yeah, okay, sure,” he takes his hand back and pushes himself up off the floor, leaning against the wall once he's upright.

  


“Okay, just sit tight and I'll find them, dude.” Bighead stands and offers him the chair, and he accepts immediately. He's so tired already; he's fairly certain he'll never feel fully awake again.

  


H e sits staring at his hands, thinking about just hiding out here until midnight so he doesn't have to see anyone that saw his little meltdown earlier.

  


“So, not _exactly_ the reunion I expected, but you sure know how to make a girl's day interesting Richie.”

  


“Glad to help,” he mumbles. “Be brutally honest-”

  


“I always am.”

  


“Great, be honest, that was really fucking pathetic right?” He puts his head in his hands. “I feel like I'm losing my mind.”

  


“Well,” he looks up as Carla stands and starts pacing in front of her monitors, “considering you thought the guy was _dead_ for months, you certainly could have freaked out worse than you did. And besides, _everyone_ knows you're like a crack addled squirrel on a _good_ day.”

  


“Gee, thanks,” he sits back and lets his hands fall to his lap, “well, I'm just going to find a quiet corner, back there,” he points to a dark corner of the room, “and stay there for the rest of my life.”

  


“Richard,” Carla somehow manages to make him stay in his seat with her stare, or maybe that's the exhaustion. It's probably the exhaustion who is he kidding? “Just chill, okay? Or as close to chill as you can get. No one's expecting you to magically become some eloquent, lax dude for no reason. You're _allowed_ to freak out, so take advantage because right now, literally _no one_ will bat an eye if you have a few meltdowns.”

  


“I guess,” Richard shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “I'd rather surprise people, you know, _not_ be myself? Just this once? But that's not going to happen, so, fuck, maybe expect me to hide in here?”

  


“Best hiding spot in the colony,” Carla agrees. “Just give me a quick page and I'll get the fuckheads out of here too.”

  


“Um, thanks,” he sighs, anxiety down to normal, and rests his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes and giving serious consideration to taking a nap in this chair.

  


“And when you're feeling better I'll throw some projects your way, deal?”

  


“Yeah, deal,” he mumbles, feeling his awareness starting to slip.


	20. Chapter 20

If meeting Peter Gregory when he was supposedly dead was catastrophic, then Richard would call being reintroduced to Dinesh and Gilfoyle anticlimactic at best. Dinesh made some comment about him looking like garbage, Gilfoyle brought up his lack of hair, and then the two started arguing about which one of them would show Richard the basics of coding for Carla. In the end Carla quietly commented that  _she_ would show him the ropes and told him to go take a nap in his bed rather than taking up space in her work area.

  


And he did, for two full hours, without even remembering to pull off his tennis shoes.

  


I t helped a little, not significantly, but he's feeling far less irritated than he did this morning.  But that doesn't mean he has any plans to move from this spot. He snorts out a laugh, realizing that he's falling into the same trap in the real world that he always did in the simulation; Richard will  _always_ get tricked by an overly comfortable bed. It's so rare for him to find a  comfortable space out there where people can find him and scare the shit out of him just by still being alive.

  


He really should get up though  and try out that introduction again; the shock of seeing Peter  _shouldn't_ come back.  Peter Gregory is alive. It  _doesn't_ mean he died and came back. He just, he definitely didn't die, he just stopped being in the simulation. Easy as that.

  


It's still a strange thing to process.  _Nothing_ in his simulated life could have prepared him for this, and he just has to accept that.  So he decides to attack this head on without even waiting for Jared or Bighead to find him after his nap. He starts wandering through the colony until he finds one of the maps, and after staring at it for a few minutes he determines the location of Peter's workspace and heads in that direction.

  


Mentally, he'd been picturing Peter's old office, but this space is smaller and far more utilitarian than the  knickknack and book filled space he remembers.  There's a single desk, or maybe a table re-purposed to serve as a desk, a single bookshelf with what looks like manuals and other information filled books, and a couple rough looking metal chairs in about the same condition as Carla's; some of the legs are messily welded in place. He stands by the door, waiting for Peter to look up from a legal pad.

  


“Um,” he coughs and Peter looks up, looking surprised, “hello? Sorry, um, should I have messaged you or something?”

  


“Richard, I trust this meeting will _not_ result in you falling to the floor in a fit.”

  


“No, yeah, I'm alright, just… that was just weird.”

  


“Understandable. From your perspective, I had perished months before. It is reasonable, to react in such a strong manner. Sit.” Richard nods and settles into the chair that looks like it has most of its structural integrity. It feels just like a meeting for Pied Piper, minus Peter Gregory's old desk, company, and anything else from the setting that would make this the same. Clearly that leaves Peter, not _quite_ dressed like he used to but still somehow very _him,_ the best example being his open toed shoes. It looks so odd compared to the sea of practical tennis shoes and hiking boots everyone else is wearing.

  


But it's also incredibly familiar, seeing Peter be _not quite_ practical, but his clothes are still perfectly functional for a guy that, presumably, barely leaves the colony. He remembers thinking, back when things were simple and his biggest worry was whether or not he could move out of the incubator, he and Peter share a lot of similar personality quirks, so he can relate. Richard certainly understands the comfort factor, and even though it isn't logical he _feels_ like he writes better algorithms when he's wearing something soft and warm with his music drowning out all distractions.

  


“So, um, I guess I'm here now, so, am I expected to _do_ anything? I mean, I know I have to do _some_ sort of job, or something, but, well...” he trails off as Peter continues to stare at him. He rubs the blush on his cheek.

  


“Richard, you would not be presumptuous to _assume_ we have been keeping an eye on you for some time now.”

  


“Right, well, there's that light thing, and, well, animals-”

  


“Richard I am referring to a time long before we began signaling you within the simulation.” Richard quiets and takes a moment to mentally prepare himself, and it's during this time that he determines that he will probably not handle this well, so he takes a moment to do some deep breathing to try and calm himself and _maybe_ he'll be able to avoid any sort of panic-filled hysterics.

  


“So, I'm, I guess special, or something?”

  


“You have potential, Richard.” He turns back to his writing but continues to talk. “Raviga and Hooli make a point of keeping an eye on people with talent, in order to foster that skill. You have seen Carla's station, if I'm not mistaken. Strong code work is a necessity in this world.” He tears the page from his note pad and meticulously starts ripping it in strips, then in small squares, and finally he piles them up and tosses them into a small trash bin. “We aren't using a language you're familiar with, but the function is similar. Carla will instruct you.”

  


“Um, okay,” he settles back. “Raviga _and_ Hooli?”

  


“Richard do you remember a programming camp, possibly late high school?”

  


“Of course,” he chuckles, nervous, not really wanting to think about being watched for that much of his adult life. “Um, I guess I was a Freshman.” In college, and it was the first time he and Bighead had gotten to spend time together that whole year. It was a nice change, getting to code all day and not have crazy expectations except for enjoying his time and making something he was proud of; by the end of the camp he'd made his first app, a shitty, uninspired thing to help him keep track of music owned, wanted, etc., per Bighead's request, but it was functional and Bighead still used it all the time. He'd managed to get through his freshman year of college because of that camp.

  


“We determined, through a process we've been perfecting, that you held potential if woken. Although prepping someone takes time, and the simulation provided plenty of setbacks. Your near expulsion nearly damaged your self-confidence irreparably.”

  


Yes, he's very glad he came here. He loves thinking about that wonderful time in his life. All of this is terribly comforting, he's not feeling like throwing up. At. All. “So, what, you've been watching me this whole time?”

  


“Precisely.”

  


Richard stands and stretches. “So, um, I think I'm going to go?” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, bumps into the hat, and shoves his hand into his pocket. “Yeah.”

  


“I'd prefer if you gave warning in the future.” Richard nods, biting his lip to hold in what he assumes will be his first panicked vomit in the real world. “We still have much to discuss.”

  


“Yeah, sure.” Richard turns quickly and rushes for the door. He's actually looking forward to talking to _Gavin_ before seeing Peter again, but he puts that thought in the back of his mind for now as he rushes across the colony towards the medic's station.


	21. Donald

He is calm.

  


Correction, he is worried, but he appears calm. But that's what Richard needs right now. A strong, capable friend to lean on, and any sort of apprehension Donald feels should be addressed, but at a later time when Richard _isn't_ hiding out in medical, throwing up because he's become too anxious for his stomach to handle the influx of fight or flight hormones.

  


When Donald gets to medical he finds Tara is standing by the door to the bathroom with obvious concern causing a crease in her brow. She worries a small hand towel between her hands, twisting the terry cloth as she waits. Donald joins her, offering a small pat on her shoulder, a little 'I'm here too, we'll help him together' unspoken but, he hopes, felt through the brief contact.

  


“He's been in there for about ten minutes.”

  


“Did he say _why_ he's upset?” Donald whispers. He's always feels a bit guilty when he talks about someone, especially when they're within earshot. Tara shakes her head. “Well, perhaps he'll tell us when he's feeling better.”

  


'When he's feeling better' happens about twenty minutes later, when a very clammy and pale Richard emerges from the bathroom, one hand still over his likely rolling stomach.

  


“I threw up.” He croaks. As if they weren't aware of his discomfort. But he's owning it, admitting it to others, and Donald understands that this is a step in the right direction.

  


“Yes, and that's alright Richard. There's nothing wrong with you,” Donald holds out a hand to Tara, and she hands him the rag. He slips past Richard into the bathroom and soaks the rag with cool water before handing it to Richard. “Are you feeling overwhelmed?”

  


“I talked to Peter, um, after a nap.” Richard unfolds the washcloth a bit and covers his mouth. “Learned some stuff, you know,” he takes a tiny step back towards the bathroom, and Donald's chest _aches_ just seeing Richard suffering so much from this transition. “Did they watch you before you were woken up?”

  


“Um, no,” Donald watches Richard's distress redouble its efforts as Richard turns around and walks back into the bathroom, “but Richard, there are several differences to our circumstances.” He motions to the sink and looks back at Tara, she nods, and hopefully leaves to find a glass. And to offer them some privacy. “I first woke up at age fourteen.”

  


“Four- fourteen,” Richard clears his throat and spits into the toilet. “What? Why?”

  


“It's,” Donald leans against the sink and huffs, chewing at the corner of his lip and contemplating just how much he's willing to share today, “it was unintentional.”

  


“Unintentional.” Richard echoes. He's not looking at Donald, but it doesn't look like he's focusing on anything in his surroundings, eyes shifting around as his stomach (hopefully) settles. “What the _fuck_ does that mean?”

  


“Our circumstances are different.” Which is true, but it also doesn't tell Richard anything useful.

  


“You said that,” Richard grumbles. “But _why_?”

  


“I'm not,” Donald stands up from leaning on the sink and turns to face Richard head on, “I'm sorry, Richard, but I'm not terribly comfortable disclosing that information. It's personal, and you're already distressed.” Not that he considers his early life _that_ distressing, but he doesn't want to burden Richard with useless information that he can't do anything about. “I think it would be better to discuss it another time.”

  


“Jared,” Donald, he thinks, but files away correcting Richard for now, “they started watching me back when I tried _college._ What the _fuck_ could mess me up worse than that?”

  


Donald's heart breaks right then and there, but he can't say anything; it isn't his department, nor his duty to discuss any of the processes used by the coders. “College. Yes, I suppose that would be rather distressing.”

  


“I mean, _fuck,_ it's like they _groomed_ me.” Richard looks angry instead of distressed, which Donald supposes is an improvement. It means he's truly beginning to process all of this. “They didn't, right?”

  


“Not exactly,” Donald tries to imagine how he should proceed. He doesn't work out any sort of concrete plan, but decides that Richard deserves at least _some_ information. “Think of it as lending a hand, or guiding you, more accurately. The final decision was always yours to make. If you had decided to stay, then that would have been the end of your interaction with the teams here. We would have left you alone, and one by one, we would have had to sever our ties to you within the simulation.” Richard's anger leaves just as quickly as it had arrived, and his mouth opens a crack, surprise and genuine _fear_ replacing the indignation from earlier. “I'm terribly sorry, I know that's a rather distressing outcome.”

  


“Everyone?” Donald nods. “So, what? Years of friendship, gone? Just like that?”

  


“Unfortunately. It would have been unsafe for us to continue to have strong ties to you if you'd decided to stay. Your level of intelligence would have potentially compromised the process that _normally_ removes any knowledge you have about the simulation, and eventually, the simulation would have discovered what you learned from speaking with Gavin and Nelson. A severing of ties would have been necessary, for our safety _and_ yours.”

  


“Everyone.”

  


“Yes.” Donald smiles, hopefully reassuring, but he fears he just looks queasy. “But we didn't Richard. You chose to join us here. No one is going to leave.”

  


He remembers the first month he was here, the fears and uncertainties he'd had to work through without any sort of help. And he hadn't been terribly attached to anyone in the simulation; he can only imagine what it must be like to form such strong friendships, to form an entire _life,_ only to have it stripped away.

  


“And I,” Richard tosses the rag at the sink, “I, I'm-” he gulps. “I've only been here, fuck, _a few days_ -”

  


“Your life is _here_ now, Richard. Please don't worry. I've helped people, _many_ people, make this same transition. You'll adjust, it just takes time.” He gently, carefully so he doesn't startle Richard, places his hands on Richard's elbows to offer some comfort, “please understand, I'm not telling you this to try and upset you. I just thought you'd like to understand. And we don't groom people, but if we see someone that can help, well, I suppose we help push them towards that final decision. Things aren't terribly _dire,_ but time is a factor. And whenever any of us go into the simulation, there's always that inherent danger, _knowing_ it's a simulation, because there are checks in place to stop us from waking others.”

  


“Okay _,_ ” Richard sniffs, “it's, I get that, I think. The, the danger part.” Richard pulls his arms back, Donald assumed he wanted a bit of space, but he latches onto Donald's hands. Donald blushes _hot_ , his ears and face certainly red, but Richard isn't looking at his face. “Um, how long,” he looks up from the floor, right into Donald's eyes, blinking fast and oh, Donald needs to be careful. He doesn't want to give Richard anything _else_ to have to worry about. “Do you know, like, a time line or something? Or maybe, average days to not freaking out every day, or fuck, maybe some tips?”

  


“Well, coming here was a good start, Richard. Tara can offer you something to help soothe your stomach.” Richard's face falls, disappointment, and he looks away. Donald has a brief moment of fear that Richard will let go, but he only holds onto Donald's hands tighter. “Discussing your concerns often helps. You could talk with Nelson, or myself, or Tara. Having a distraction, perhaps a project from Carla, or another job to occupy your time, will help. I'm sorry I can't offer more aid than that, but the experience is different for everyone.”

  


“Right,” this time Richard does let go, and Donald clasps his hands together, holding onto that warmth the contact generated. “So, I think I'm gonna- I'm tired still, so-”

  


“Absolutely,” Donald turns around and finds Tara, definitely standing close enough to hear. But they'll talk about this after Richard is gone. For now she just hands him the glass. “Yes, thank you. Richard, it would be best if you drank a glass of water before you go.”

  


He watches Richard drink the water in silence. Donald stands back with Tara, waiting, patient and ready to talk if Richard wants to say anything more, but he only hands over the glass and leaves medical without another word.

  


“He'll be okay,” Tara says, patting the middle of Donald's back and taking the glass. “It's barely been three days.”

  


“Yes,” Donald nods, although he's worried about future explanations from Gavin, and Peter, and Nelson, and if he's honest, from himself, “yes, you're probably right.”


	22. Chapter 22

No one comes to fetch Richard next morning, and he doesn't have the motivation to leave his bed any time soon. Briefly, he considers food, but he's not hungry, or if he is, he's probably just going to throw up again anyway, and wasting anything makes him feel guilty.

  


Years, literal _years,_ they've been watching. Waiting. But, well, it never _felt_ that way. It's more like those specialized high schools for music or technology. Richard always _thought_ he would work with computers, and they just helped it along, maybe made a couple things easier for him. Fast tracking, or maybe streamlining. At least, that's the answer that eases his anxiety the most, so he commits to no longer dwelling on that particular detail about the past.

  


He feels an urge to find Bighead, to surround himself with at least somewhat familiar people, but it isn't stronger than the urge to never move again. Briefly, he considers paging him, but again, he doesn't want to move, so Richard stays curled up under his blankets with his face in his pillow.

  


Bighead lives here. He won't leave. No one will leave. He's not in a simulation and his friends aren't going to abandon him. Richard only has to tell himself that a few times before he starts to believe it, and after a couple more he's confident that not finding Bighead right this second won't result in him never seeing his friend again.

  


Sometimes, when Richard dreams, _this place_ is still part of the simulation, just a new way to torment him, and he has to find those damned ports on his arms and legs to verify that he _isn't_ hooked up to anything. And that brings a whole other type of anxiety, the part of him that is _terribly_ uncomfortable with the thought that his world's been manipulated so thoroughly. But he suspects that anxiety won't be going away anytime soon, and at least it helps remind him that, in all likelihood, he is no longer hooked up to a glorified VR machine.

  


Romantically, Richard loves the idea of staying in bed all day, but after a few more failed attempts to motivate himself he manages to sit up in bed, but only because he's no longer comfortable enough to doze off. When he does leave his unit he bypasses all food stands and cafeterias and goes straight to medical for something to settle his stomach, he's trying to be proactive about all of this.

  


“Tara, um, o-oh, um,” he backs up towards the door when he finds Tara isn't alone, and the other person is _Gavin_ and he's, well he's getting his hand wrapped with gauze but he's watching Richard with an unfamiliar expression on his face. “Uh, I can come back-”

  


“Richard you look _awful_ ,” Tara gasps and ushers him to a bed. “Are you feeling sick? I should make sure you don't have a fever, colds are very common right out of the pods. I'll be right back. Gavin, don't leave yet, I have some antibiotic ointment.”

  


He doesn't have time for the embarrassment to fully settle in until after Tara leaves the room to get some more medical supplies. Awful. She said he looked _awful._ Well, he does _feel_ awful, and he realized somewhere in the middle of Tara's exclamations that Gavin's face looks _worried_ for Richard's well-being, and he's just not ready to process that kind of information. Truthfully, Richard is still mostly stuck in 'fuck Gavin Belson' mode, and the transition to 'this is my ally, Gavin Belson' feels very far off in the future.

  


“Richard,” Gavin nods to him, but he's now focused on his bandaged hand. “You're looking well.”

  


He sputters, laughs, and it's a relief, really, that Gavin would try to downplay his apparent malaise in favor of sarcasm. “What the fuck, that wasn't even _close_ to serious, right?”

  


“Obviously,” Gavin looks back up at Richard, and the worry is gone, replaced by Gavin's resting, non-emotional face, “you have Tara this worked up, and I know that doesn't mean much to you yet, but you'll see a pattern.”

  


“Mom-like, right?” He doesn't get an answer before Tara comes back and shoves a thermometer in his mouth (well gently asks him to open and places it under his tongue, but the effect is the same) and Richard has to sit quietly while she tells Gavin that he better use this if he's going to keep working with the team hands on, and it's rather funny to watch Gavin get mom'ed by someone younger than him. After Tara is done Gavin leaves and all the mom energy in the room hones back in on Richard.

  


“Okay, Richard, let's see,” she takes the thermometer out when it beeps, “well, no fever at least. Are you still feeling nauseated?”

  


“Dunno, I didn't eat yet,” the shock on her face makes him shrink, feeling guilty, _knowing_ he should have eaten something, “I didn't want to throw up again.”

  


“I can give you something,” she murmurs and turns back to a shelf, “but you better eat, okay? Or I'm going to have to put you on an IV.”

  


“Right, okay,” Richard touches the inside of his arm, he's not fond of that outcome, and mentally adds get some food to his list of goals for the day. “So, um, say, I-” she turns back, concerned, wide eyes giving him full attention, “has anyone said, like, that this doesn't feel, I dunno, real?”

  


“Re-oh, oh!” Tara nods. “Richard, I know this is all still new, but you're safe here. And you're no longer in the simulation.”

  


“I, I _know_ that, but, sometimes,” Richard reaches back to touch his arm port on his left triceps.

  


“Richard, these ports,” she takes his right hand, stopping him before he can do any picking, “the simulation would _never_ let you see what kind of technology they're using. Or there would be a lot more people here and not still plugged in.”

  


It makes more sense, hearing it from somebody else, _knowing_ that apparently he isn't the first to feel this way. And the ports are tangible, he can feel them if he touches his arms or legs, or the back of his neck; having it be something real, and not just a feeling, helps more than Richard thought it would. More than even this morning, when it was Richard's frantic thoughts justifying their presence; Tara sounds confident when she tells him they're there because he's awake. And he joked about the mom thing, but he can't deny the amount of comfort he feels when he's around people that sound so sure of themselves. Moms always seems to have that quality, at least all the ones he's ever encountered have.

  


Can he still talk to his mom? He should ask Jared about that later.

  


“Now, if you're feeling better, I want you to go eat something. And if you ask they'll give you half portions,” he doesn't know how the _fuck_ Tara keeps knowing exactly what is worrying him, but he's glad he didn't have to say it out loud. She hands him a small bottle of pills. “They'll settle your stomach if you feel any nausea. Take it easy.”

  


“Yeah, okay,” Richard slides off the bed and pockets the pills. “See you.”

  


“You better _not_!” She teases, and he laughs once, nods, and leaves medical.

  


And Gavin is standing there, arms crossed with his injured hand tucked, and of _course_ he waited. “Oh fuck okay, you're here, um-”

  


“Richard, walk with me?” Gavin motions towards the walkway and Richard, not sure what else he's supposed to do, follows. “You've been here a few days now.”

  


“Three, or four? I think four.” He falls into step with Gavin, already chewing his lip and considering taking one of his pills, even though there's nothing in his stomach to throw up.

  


“How are you adjusting?” It's such an honest, _earnest_ question from Gavin, and he's not at all prepared for Gavin to be _nice_ to him. “Donald tells me you've seen Peter.”

  


He thinks about Gavin calling Donald Jared, about how Jared is only how Richard is only stuck on the name because of Gavin. “Yeah, uh, I met with him yesterday, a bit.”

  


“I'm sure that was an _enlightening_ experience.”

  


“Fuck, yeah, I guess.” He closes his hand around the pill bottle, but he doesn't think he'll need one for now. “Watching me is kind of creepy, you know? I mean, was it _all the time_ or like, just _sometimes_?”

  


“Richard, we didn't have a fucking _camera_ following you around if that's what you're asking. But seriously, think of how many people you know that were here already. Did you ever stop and think that maybe, _maybe_ they were relaying some information back to us?”

  


He did, but he also didn't like the thought that Bighead's been a messenger of all things Richard related for years. “Yeah, I guess?”

  


“So, reasonably, bare with me here, possibly, we're _aware_ that you'd think it's creepy, but that the alternative would to leave you to your own devices, and that _that_ could have been potentially devastating to the plan of getting you here? Do you follow, or are we going to need to go into more detail at a later time?”

  


“Well, um, I-” Richard doesn't like how often he feels like an idiot around Gavin, but the familiarity is kind of nice despite the influx of humiliation. “You know what, it's still really fucking creepy. And it's not like me coming here was a guarantee. And Bighead is my _friend,_ but you made him do all that anyway.”

  


“ _Nelson,_ ” Gavin corrects him, and he feels that familiar defiance flaring up, mentally determined to call him Bighead forever now. “Richard, I'm a busy guy, and you should do what Tara tells you, but I'll tell you what. I'll have Donald find you sometime tomorrow and we'll have a good, _long_ talk about a few things. Set the story straight and whatnot. And _believe_ me, us watching you will be the _last_ thing you're worried about.”


	23. Chapter 23

Vague warnings always do wonders to Richard's sleep schedule, i.e. he sleeps terribly that night, and has terrible nightmares about metal spiders and pods and getting forcibly _thrown_ back into the simulation, so by the time Jared shows up the next morning he's feeling overtired and anxious and not at all ready for whatever Gavin is planning on telling him.

  


“Good morning, Richard, Gavin told me you wanted to have a talk?”

  


“Yeah, well, um, I told him about knowing about the watching thing, and,” Richard yawns, he's already so done with being awake and upright today, “and he said he wanted to 'set the story straight' or whatever.”

  


“Yes,” Jared draws it out, ending with a sigh and rubbing his forehead. “I suppose it doesn't do any good to keep you in the dark about anything.”

  


Jared is quiet for the rest of their walk; briefly he directs Richard towards one of the food stalls, and Richard gets a half portion of some oatmeal. It's mostly just to placate Jared; Richard isn't feeling all that hungry right now. Just the act of crossing the colony is tiring. He nearly turns around and goes back to his room, but he wants to know what the fuck is going on, and hell, maybe he'll feel better after this talk.

  


He won't, because that would mean things are going his way which is just not a thing that ever happens, but he lets himself hope during the time it takes him to go through the doorway and into a small office. It's similar to Peter's except Gavin is at the desk and he has a few roughed up street signs on the walls.

  


And Bighead is here, leaning against one corner of the desk, quietly talking over something with Gavin. Richard can't see what they're looking at but it looks like a notepad. Plans, maybe, or a schedule based on the blocked out shapes. It's hard to tell, and Richard isn't sure if he should pry. Before he gets a chance to decide Bighead looks up from the notepad, and gives Richard a small smile and a wave. “Hey man, you can take a seat.”

  


Gavin coughs, looking a bit miffed about Bighead offering a chair in _his_ office, but motions for Richard to sit. “Richard, I imagined you would like Nelson here as well, considering the nature of our impending conversation.”

  


“Oh, yeah, definitely,” he takes a seat in one of the chairs (these are less roughed up, but still in what Richard is starting to affectionately think of as college dorm room shape) and starts eating his oatmeal, which is cold and unsatisfying but still better than letting himself be hungry, now that he's acknowledging his growling stomach. “So, we're going to talk?”

  


“Yes, in a moment, but first, Richard, _someone_ ,” he glares over at Bighead, “thinks I should ask you if you're ready to hear this, which is a load of shit, because _you_ have no idea if this is what you are or aren't ready to hear, but for the benefit of the room, do you think you're ready to hear this?”

  


Richard shrugs. “Fuck, let's just pile it all on at once. Rip off the band aid.”

  


“Right, this is one _hell_ of a band aid,” Gavin admits, and rubs his face. Not really a great sign. Richard feels for the stomach pills in his sweatshirt and quietly pulls one out. He isn't feeling nauseated yet, but he wants to hopefully keep it from happening at all. “Donald, Peter told him about the monitoring, correct?” Jared nods. “And I believe we left off yesterday with me telling you it wasn't a camera, but actual _people_ letting us know how you were doing.”

  


“Yeah, still creepy.” He sees both Bighead and Jared wilt, and Richard bites his lip. Right, it was mostly likely _those two_ doing all the relaying of information. “But, well, it was to help right?”

  


“In the last few months Donald's role was to carefully watch you, and make sure the process of making you aware went unnoticed by the simulation. Then we could have performed an emergency removal, if necessary, of you _or_ these two, depending on your choice. For the most part, these two were around for moral support, because apparently you have the confidence the an average pencil eraser.”

  


He's not sure _why_ that feels so accurate, but it does, and Richard can only sit quietly and wait for Gavin to continue.

  


“Richard, I'm going to just bypass any sort of tact because there's no good way to sugarcoat _any_ of the things I'm going to discuss with you, so just answer this question for me. When is the last time you spoke with your parents?”

  


Richard opens his mouth to answer, and then stops, closing it, because he doesn't _know_ the answer to that. He supposes right after he started the company, but no, that doesn't feel right. Maybe when he first got out to Palo Alto? But no matter how hard Richard tries, he can't seem to recall a memory of calling them, or even writing a simple email. “Wh-what?”

  


“Can't remember? Don't worry, I'm sure that's normal.” Gavin sits back and crosses his arms. “How about this, just think about your mother for a minute. Describe her to me.”

  


“Right, okay, well she-” and he stops again, unsure how to proceed. Because he knows, conceptually, that his mother is, well she's… he _has_ a mother. And she has… hair? He can't seem to recall what color. He closes his eyes, thinks, _focuses_ all of his energy, trying to recall her face, or her voice, hell, he'll be satisfied with a familiar _smell_ , maybe a perfume, but nothing appears.

  


“Richard, you can't remember, can you,” Gavin says, not asks, like he _expected_ this to happen. “It's because she's been phased out of your life, Richard. Removed, essentially. Your few memories scrubbed to make room for the things that will keep you tethered into the simulation.”

  


“Fuck that.” Richard spits back, angry, confused, and hurt. “Fuck _you,_ Gavin. She's- I have a mother, and I talked to her all the time, fuck.”

  


“Richard, I know you have a biological mother. We all do. But why do you think you can't recall anything about her?” Richard wipes his eyes, sobs once, but he won't cry. He's _angry,_ not sad, and these are obviously just tears from being so damn _frustrated_ with Gavin and his bullshit. “I'm going to answer for you, and it's the _truth,_ Richard. The mother you think you should remember is an implanted memory. Most memories from your early childhood are.”

  


He shakes his head. “That doesn't make any fucking sense.”

  


“No one in the simulation _needs_ that kind of care, Richard. You start life in a pod, and if you never leave the simulation, that's where it also ends. The in between part, your memories of experiences and ideas, those are what keep people complacent. You feel these familial ties to people, concepts, but they're fabricated for the most part. You likely stayed with them, inhabited the same space in the simulation, but priorities were focused elsewhere. Their relationship with each other keeps them tethered the same way your lofty goals about having a business kept you complacent.”

  


“Brown hair,” he mutters, but even that doesn't sound right. “But, fuck, I can't _picture_ it? But that feels right, I think.”

  


“Very possible, genetically. People are randomly selected, and often based on friendships or other relationships they form, but as an infant, and even into early childhood, your consciousness is just suppressed. It isn't until a person is capable of abstract thought that they even start to have a presence in the simulation. Around age ten, for most people. And at that age, no one expects the memories you form to stick. Hell, even teenage years are blurry for most people. As for your parents, well, they 'remember' their children most once they're already gone, off to college or a marriage or whatever it is that will keep you happy. You're in the simulation with them long enough for the simulation to _learn_ what in your life will keep you tethered as an adult, because as an adult you're done growing, and most of your metabolic processes can then provide power. It's a long term investment on their part. One that usually pays off.”

  


“But, but there's _kids_ in there, all the time. Right? I've… I've _seen_ them.”

  


“Younger than ten? Or does it feel vague, blurry. Because that's all it takes. Do you remember a specific infant, or toddler?” Richard shakes his head. He isn't going to even _try_ to dig deeper for that memory. “It's efficient on their part, keeping younger children in a stasis, _feeding_ them memories of knowledge, of school years they never attended. Most childhood memories are very formulaic. Those strange babbling they're prone to do, just a child's dream projected into their avatar, the form people take in the simulation. For the most part children are on autopilot, loosely based on the actual child.”

  


Richard looks to Bighead, mentally pleading, because, well, he _remembers_ their childhood, somewhat. Together at a young age, playing or maybe just watching TV, _young,_ far younger than this 'abstract thought' age Gavin mentioned. And it's so clear, them sprawled out on a couch, or playing in the backyard of Bighead's parent's house. They grew up together, and he _can picture it clearly_.

  


“Richard, hey man, I know what you're thinking, us, right? When we were, well,” Bighead starts, and then he looks away, to Gavin, and the pained downturn of his lips doesn't make Richard feel any better about his memories. “Gavin?”

  


“I'd like to start this part by saying it was _Peter's_ department that decided to do this in the first place, and that no, you aren't the first person to have this done to you.” He stands, and walks around the desk, and actually puts a hand on Richard's shoulder. This can't be good. “Richard, you've had memories implanted of a childhood friendship with Nelson.”


	24. Donald

Donald watches quietly as Richard curls in on himself while sitting on the floor in Gavin's office, hands at the back of his neck, pressing on the main port at the base of his skull. He's quiet, that's what concerns Donald the most, because normally Richard yells, or rants, but this is quiet defeat, he's obviously _terribly_ upset about his memories, about the doctoring that's been done to his hippocampus.

  


Gavin is also quiet, but he looks like he's thinking, or trying to will Richard out of his office without using words. Nelson, the focal point really, the reason (although it wasn't his choice to make) that Richard is feeling this way right now, hasn't moved from his place near Gavin's desk. Donald wants to hug Richard, to help him process this new information, but he can't get himself to move across the small space.

  


“Richard?” Nelson is the one to move first, and Donald swears quietly to himself, can't help but think that _he_ should have been quicker to respond, but he wasn't, and he stands back as Nelson quietly approaches Richard and gently pulls his hands away from the port. “Hey, Richard, man, I know this is like, _really_ fucked, yeah?” Richard mumbles something Donald can't here, and Nelson responds with, “you're my friend.”

  


“Am I _really_!” Richard snarls, eyes wet, red rimmed, distress practically rolling off him, making Donald's eyes itch and his chest feel tight, “ _ **fuck**_ did we ever really _do anything_?  What about that, fucking, the computer thing? Or did we just meet now?”

  


“Yeah, dude we went there, and that's,” Nelson runs his fingers through his hair, “that's where we really met.” Richard puts his face back on his knees and whines, “Richard Richard, hey, hey it's okay.” Richard mumbles. “Fine, fine not _okay,_ alright? But Richard, that's still, fuck, _eight years_? That's still a long time dude. And it's been me, _really_ me, that whole time since. No fake memories.”

  


Donald glances at Nelson's arm bands; he remembers helping Tara with small tasks while Nelson spent more and more time with Richard in the simulation, remembers the concern on her face, but another whine from Richard snaps him out of his thoughts.

  


“I'll be right back, okay?” Nelson reassures Richard, touches his shoulders and arms, rubs his back, basically everything Donald knows, in theory, that he could do to help Richard cope, but even when Nelson comes back over to the desk he can't get himself to move across the room.

  


“This is going about as well as I imagined,” Gavin mutters, and Nelson shakes his head.

  


“Let me handle this, the transition, I'll help him out for now,” Nelson replies. Donald bites back the 'this is my job' he can feel trying to sneak out of his mouth. Because this is no longer a routine job. Because right now, he isn't really doing anyone any good. “He's my friend.”

  


“Well, your _friend_ has some false memories he's going to have to work through,” Gavin adds, though it isn't malicious, it's just a fact. 

  


Donald's seen the memories, Carla really does excellent work when she pours all of her energy into a project, and even though it's only a handful of moments in time they're very significant, beautifully done  scenes . A first meeting at school, tiny Nelson just marching up to Richard when he was trying to hide in one of the towers of the playground, a sleepover with video games and candy and soda, Donald has a soft spot for the one of the two of them taking their first road trip to a computer fair. It was the first time he saw Richard's face,  big smile and none of the worry he carries as an adult , reflected in the  car's rear view mirror as he cautiously drives down the highway.

  


B ut Donald suspects Richard has always remembered these moments fondly; they're nice memories to think back on. And  now he knows they aren't real, just a well crafted fabrication. He can't imagine what it feels like to lose that kind of comfort.

  


“Guys, um, I think I'm going to bring Richard to his unit. You know, give him some privacy.”

  


“I can help,” finally Donald finds his voice, though it's small and cracks towards the end. He curls forward a bit, not very fond of the way his voice broke. The sympathy on Nelson's face makes him hope he'll agree, but if not Donald will return to his own space alone; he's capable of working through his feelings privately, or perhaps he'll visit Carla, in case she's feeling lonely or bored. If not, he can always take a hot shower, maybe cry it out a little, just to release some of the frustration.

  


He'll be okay.

  


“Yeah, alright,” Nelson motions to Richard and Donald complies, walking across the room and kneeling by his side, “just gotta get some things worked out, okay? Then we can head over there.”

  


  


Donald nods and turns all of his attention to Richard. He intends to comfort Richard, to say some encouraging words, but Richard asks, “did you know?” before he can get anything out. “The memories. Did you know?”

  


“Yes,” he admits. “Carla's skilled, and they're quite beautiful, really. Richard, I'm so sorry.” He reaches out, intends to rub Richard's back to comfort him, but Richard _flinches,_ scoots away before any connection can be formed, and Donald pulls his hand back, cradling his hands against his chest. He can't remember the last time he wasn't able to help Richard calm down.

  


“Okay,” Nelson approaches and plops down in front of Richard, “Richard, I'm going to take some time off, help you work through some of this shit, how's that sound?” Richard only looks up for a moment before hiding his face again. “C'mon, we'll get you to your unit, play some music, you can take a hot shower-”

  


“Eight years?” Richard looks so lost, and Donald can only sit back and watch as Nelson does a far better job at making Richard feel better than Donald has been, and with a fraction of the effort.

  


“Yeah dude,” he nods, “eight years. Come on,” he stands and offers Richard a hand, Donald scrambles to get up so he can join them, even if all he's capable of right now is following quietly, “I'll get you back to being your usual neurotic self.”

  


Donald watches Nelson guide Richard towards the door and, without any flinches or discomfort on Richard's part, puts an arm around his side. Gavin coughs, obviously wanting attention before everyone leaves, and Donald turns to look at him.

  


“It's a special case,” Donald cocks his head to one side, “Richard. He was never going to be a quick recovery.”

  


“Right, I suppose not.”

  


“Let Nelson fuck around with him for a few days, see if it doesn't snap him out of the worst of it.” Donald nods and lets his shoulders droop. “For fucks sake don't look like such a kicked puppy. You didn't do anything wrong, Richard is just _especially_ sensitive when his precious little routine gets disrupted, and it's been disrupted in a _big way_. He'll figure things out eventually.”


	25. Carla

Carla watches as Donald wanders into her workspace and tries to drape himself against a table without getting in the way, but even for a skinny guy he still takes up a lot of space, so Carla still feels the need to address whatever has him moping about instead of skittering happily after Richard. Still, she takes a few more moments to finish up the function she was trying to streamline, taking only a few seconds to glance over at Donald without turning her head, and mentally groaning as he continues to suffer quietly, probably trying not to disturb her work.

  


“Alright string bean, what are you doing?” She settles back in her chair with her feet up, preparing for a long-winded discussion about Donald's infatuation, and it is definitely that she has _eyes,_ and why his excitement from a week ago has turned into him sucking all the joy out of the room with his big, sad eyes and pouting lips.

  


“I thought you'd like some company.” _Correction_ , she thinks, _he wants company._ And one of these days she'll teach him how to just _ask_ for someone to talk to instead of this tired routine, but Carla saves it for another day.

  


“Okay, well, I'm brainstorming projects for Richard to start. Got any bright ideas?”

  


“He hasn't spoken to me,” he says, drooping more against the table, and _there's_ the reason why he's so unhappy. “He didn't take the news about his memories very well.”

  


“What? I did some Grade A work on those.” Carla swears this guy is going to turn her into a softie one of these days with all the sad looks she's had to deal with over the years. “Don't give me that look man, that little, 'everything in the world is sad' pout isn't going to get you anything from me.”

  


“I just want help him adjust.” Donald moves so he's actually sitting on the table and turns his attention on Carla fully, no, turns that _damned face_ on her fully. She groans as he continues to look forlorn and depressed, only now she sees the slight over-acting, a tiny upturn of one side of his mouth, and yeah, she really is that good at figuring this guy out. Years of practice will do that.

  


“You're such a shit head,” she says as she slaps his leg. He laughs, just for a second, before the smile is gone again. Okay, so he's not _completely_ fucking with her. “So what's wrong with curly exactly, memories aside.”

  


“I don't know, we haven't spoken for a few days,” and there it is again, she can't believe he managed to wait so long before meeting Richard in the simulation if this is what being apart for a few days does to him, “Nelson is trying to help right now.”

  


“Well, there _is_ a history between them.” Donald nods, back to pouting and looking at the floor, and Carla, benevolent, caring Carla, holds in her teasing for now, but later he better watch out. “It's not like you didn't _try_.”

  


“It wasn't sufficient. He's still anxious, having trouble eating, and I think I've upset him.”

  


“You personally, or just, you know, he's upset and you happen to be within proximity of his moods.” He shrugs and she puts her head back on the back of her chair, groaning, “Donnie, buddy, we both _know_ how Richard is.”

  


“He's never been particularly good with change to his routine. And, I suppose my praise for your work didn't help his feelings about the implanted memories.”

  


“Bout as big a change as it _gets_ , coming here. And hey, you can have differing opinions. Unbiased, yeah, it's good work. But he's new to the whole, my brain's been fucked with sort of thing. Nelson'll turn him around, I'm sure. Or of not, I'm sure he'll come running back to you eventually.” Carla sits up and turns back to her monitor. “Here, help me out will you? I need projects for him, and then you can go find Richard and tell him to get his butt over here, have an excuse to see him sooner.”

  


Donald watches her screen, eyes scanning the lines of code and some notes she's thrown into a text file. But even as Carla sits poised and ready no ideas start spilling out of Donald's mouth. “Earth to Donnie, you got an idea or have I lost you again?”

  


“He flinched, away that is, and I suppose it's upsetting to think about.” She didn't realize they weren't done with their little heart to heart but Carla turns back to him, watching Donald's profile as he dazes out in the general direction of her monitors. “He's never, well, _reacted_ quite like that.”

  


“And you don't think that little flinch had anything to do with, I don't know, the part where _his memories were fucked with_?” Donald, clearly not listening to her sage advice, huffs. “Oh my God, Donnie, you tall, dumb tree man, he is not mad at you. Or whatever negative emotion you've convinced yourself that he's currently feeling towards you.”

  


“Nelson just, it was effortless.” Donald takes a breath. “I froze.”

  


“You're _pining_ ,” Carla whines. And the person he's pining for is _here,_ the lucky bastard. _One day Jane,_ Carla thinks, glancing at the shitty printout she has taped to one of the lower monitors. “You've been so excited for _months_ after you found out we were fast-tracking him.”

  


“Richard is very bright. He can help our cause a great deal.”

  


“Yeah, alright,” Carla knows that shutdown technique, Donald always ignores her when she tries to get him to just _admit_ to his little (giant, work disrupting) crush. “Just, your _friend_ is here. You had to expect it to be different.”

  


“I suppose.” Donald nods, eyes closed, deep breath and _boom_ , Carla is a master of getting this guy back to his baseline. “Didn't you want to improve communication?”

  


“Wh-yes, yes I did.” Carla ticks away at her keyboard, adding 'comm' under the Richard column. “Gotta be a better way than _fucking_ billboards.” Although she's gotten _crazy_ fast at slapping together a billboard message.

  


“We should decide on some specifics, perhaps a headset? Or some other form of verb-” The door to the workspace creaks open and Carla turns, assuming it's Dinesh whining about his current streamlining project, but it's Richard, looking like garbage, terribly unhappy, and she doesn't even have to _look_ at Donald to know he's freaking out about the wreck of a man in front of them.

  


“Richie,” Carla nods a hello, he rubs his face and nods back, “you're looking like shit.”

  


“You have like, stuff to do, right?” Ignore and deflect, Jesus these two belong together. Richard wiggles his fingers, which completely baffles her, until she realizes he's miming typing. “Projects or-?”

  


“Well, sure, fuck, we were just talking about those.” She motions to Donald, gives him a nudge, he makes a grunting noise and moves to stand behind Carla's chair to hide. “Will you stop? Please?” He blushes and rubs his left upper arm. “Richard, I need to grab one of the crap tops for you to fuck around on, but I have some documents you can start going over to learn the language, okay?”

  


“Sure,” he mumbles, and she gets up to let the two awkward it up while she digs through a stock room.

  


“Honestly, fuck's sake, it's like they're _teenagers_ or something.”


	26. Five days earlier.

“And hey, I have a shit ton of music you can listen- Richard?” Bighead claps a hand on his shoulder, Richard sniffs and mentally tries to fall through the floor. He can hear Jared there too, quietly following behind; Richard isn't sure if he wants him there or wants him to stay away. He _praised_ the memories, like, like they were some breakthrough project and not, well, _Richard's life._ He's not really sure about a lot of things right now, but _fuck_ those memories. Just, _**fuck**_. “I'll pick, okay? Just deep breaths man.”

  


Bighead's hand is strong, and warm, and it's actually somewhat comforting, somewhat _familiar,_ and he holds onto that feeling. Because right now nothing else feels even _close_ to familiar, or comforting, or any other good feeling he'd really like to have right about now.

  


When they reach his unit Richard lies down face first on his bed. And takes a deep breath, and another, and he's crying but quietly and, hopefully, without being noticed.

  


“Richard?” He really can't deal with words right now, and Jared is well, not helping by trying to make him talk. He shakes his head. “Do you want me to get anything from medical? Or perhaps some food?”

  


Again, _words,_ and Richard pulls his pillow over his head in response.

  


“Donald, dude, I got this, alright? Could you go see if Peter or Gavin need anything? Now?” He feels kind of bad about Bighead getting rid of Jared so abruptly, but not enough to try and say anything. He's not sure what he would do if he asked Jared to stick around anyway.

  


“Okay, dude, just us.” Richard turns his head a fraction so he can see what Bighead is doing. From across the room he sees Bighead mess with the intercom on the wall, “say could you bring my speakers over? Thanks babe.”

  


Richard hides his face again, takes a second to process the pet name, and shoves it away for now. Not important, or at least, not the thing that made him upset.

  


“Richard, go get in the shower, okay?” Richard sits up and wipes his face and Bighead's carefree half smile is gone. “Fuck, okay. Take a hot shower, get relaxed, and I'll get my music set up.”

  


He doesn't intend on actually showering, he just went into the bathroom for some privacy, but to at least fool Bighead he turns on the hot water. But it would be nice and warm; his mirror is already fogged over from the steam. It wouldn't hurt to get in for a couple minutes, just to warm up, and maybe his eyes won't sting anymore. But just for a couple minutes.

  


Ten minutes into his shower he hears his unit door open, and assumes it's Bighead's 'babe' whoever that is, and some muffled talking. He's curious, horribly, almost _painfully_ curious, but he doesn't have any clothes on, and he doesn't want to stand around dripping wet while meeting whoever Bighead is apparently dating.

  


And, added bonus, he's starting to feel a bit better and not like a complete wreck of a human being. So Richard ignores the urge to meet this mysterious person in favor of washing his face.

  


There's a knock on the bathroom door, Bighead obviously, and Richard peeks his head out from behind the curtain so he can hear better. “Yeah?”

  


“Music's ready when you are Richard.” He nods even though Bighead can't see. There's no indication from behind the door suggesting Bighead needs a reply, and Richard is terribly grateful. When _he's_ ready, yeah, he'll be getting out of the shower. And Bighead knows that. And excluding some sort of marathon, multiple hours long shower, Bighead won't say anything, won't force him out of the bathroom until he wants to leave.

  


He doesn't feel lucky, but Richard knows that deep down, he really is, because Bighead doesn't even have to really do anything to make Richard feel even a tiny bit better, and a tiny bit is better than nothing.

  


Richard pushes open the door to quiet, elevator music, or maybe some jazzy house music; Bighead is the music buff not Richard, but whatever it is he likes it, and ignoring the lack of a window in his space it feels like so many nights spent trying to turn his GPA around. Not the happiest time in his life, but chilling in his dorm while Bighead monopolized the music of the room and drove Richard's roommate out for a few hours was the happiest time during one of the shittiest times of his life.

  


It's honestly the closest Richard will ever get to having a therapy session; strangers just _fill_ him with anxiety and he wasn't going to foot the bill to take the time to finally get comfortable with an actual therapist. Just give him a room full of Bighead's music and someone willing to listen to him bitch about whatever is ailing him and he's good.

  


That's probably why he got this bad; up until now Richard's been holding literally _all_ of his grievances in, and now it's about to all come out at once. He doesn't expect to get a lot of sleep tonight.

  


So he leaves the bathroom, already mentally prioritizing his list of wrongs, but the little setup Bighead's working on makes him pause in the bathroom doorway. There's a couple speakers, which he expected because that's what Bighead asked 'babe' to get for him, but he didn't expect a thermos, and two mugs on the bedside table, and triple the number of blankets he had before, all stacked on his bed and looking terribly inviting right now.

  


Bighead's really taken his friendly coddling (he hates to think of it this way but really what else could he call this treatment) to a whole new level. He hands Richard a mug of something hot, it looks and smells like tea, and when he takes a tiny sip it's a bit bitter, but definitely caffeinated. It's a welcome luxury.

  


“Is there like, sugar?”

  


“Sometimes, but it's kind of a hot commodity.” Bighead takes a drink of his own mug and grimaces. “Jesus I know why you asked.”

  


“It's just a little bitter.” Richard sets his mug down long enough to burrow under about ten pounds of blankets and grabs his mug again. “Why is there tea but not sugar?”

  


“Tea's got health benefits, sugar doesn't.” Bighead sets his mug down and walks over to his speaker setup. “Preference?”

  


“You pick. Is there like, last time you pulled up a soundtrack from a movie?”

  


“Yeah? Oh! Oh, yeah dude, I can pull anything from the simulation just gimme a second.” He messes with his player and some soft music starts playing. “Wes Anderson stuff, right? Gotta give the guy credit, he does some awesome shit.”

  


“Too bad it's fake,” Richard cocks his head to one side and listens. “Why can you play it?”

  


“Okay, so this is a question I'm actually prepared for. Answer me this. Why can you play Pac Man?”

  


“What?”

  


“Well, he isn't real. He's never going to leave that console. Why can you play it?”

  


“Well, it's coded-”

  


“Same thing.” Richard nods, he gets the similarity. “I mean, everything in the simulation is code, and music has its own special format within the simulation. So if we isolate it we can listen to the tracks, just like a music player. Honestly dude that's one of my favorite things to come out of that place. We can pull movies too if you're ever interested.”

  


“Maybe,” except maybe never. He's kind of torn about putting a positive spin on anything about the simulation. Music could still go a bad way if he thinks too hard. “Not now.”

  


“Course,” Nelson, he's pleased to realize it's been really smooth to think of him that way the last few times, sits at the foot of his bed and flops over so he's lying on his back. “What ails you dude?”

  


“Ha, that's the wrong question.”

  


“Okay, yeah,” Nelson smirks, “what ails you the _most_?”

  


“Memories. Fake ones. It's _fucked_ up, you know?” Richard finishes his mug of tea and sets it aside. He flops onto his side and groans. “It's like they copied someone else's files into my head.”

  


“We all have them.” Richard sits up, “Richard, _everyone_ has at least some fabricated memories. The simulation churns them out to fill in the gaps from childhood. Carla just studied what they did and learned to make some of her own, only hers usually have more detail.”

  


“ _Everyone._ ” Richard confirms, and Bighead (it's a conscious change back, one he'll keep to himself, but one he needs right now) nods. “Jared, and you, and...”

  


“Yeah, _everyone,_ even Gavin and Peter, although Gavin's are a bit different. Generation thing, different time, you get the gist right?”

  


“Sure, yeah,” Richard rubs his face and, again, flops over. He's pretty much given up today. “Everyone.”

  


“Every-fucking-one, Richard. We just turned it against them.”

  


“You know, it doesn't really make me feel any better, knowing that.”

  


“Yeah, I know,” Bighead rolls onto his stomach, and Richard didn't realize seeing Bighead's glasses was bothering him until he couldn't see them anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. “Wasn't supposed to, just, well, thought you should know it's not just you. Solidarity or something.”

  


“Solidarity, yeah. I guess.” He sighs. “I guess that sort of helps.”


	27. Chapter 27

Richard stares up at his ceiling, mumbling to himself and working on building up the motivation to go to the bathroom. And to acknowledge the part where he didn't sleep more than an hour straight last night.

  


So far, he's oh for two.

  


Solidarity.

  


He said it helped last night, knowing  _everyone_ has these memories, but now he's fairly certain that was a complete lie. It's not better.  It's not  _worse_ either, he understands the difference.  But he'd hoped Bighead would be a little more helpful in this whole, 'make Richard feel like he's not horribly out of place' thing they're trying out.  He's trying, sure, he always feels a bit obligated to give Bighead credit for trying, but trying and actually helping aren't the same thing.

  


Bighead slept here last night, curled up on the foot of Richard's bed, like so many accidental (fake) sleepovers from their (fake) childhood.  They talked, sure, and Richard complained about a bunch of superficial bullshit to make himself feel a little better, but Bighead being himself means he fell asleep during hour three of Richard's rant, and it left Richard grumbling in the dark, essentially alone, and unable to fall asleep no matter how much he tried. Some friend.

  


Richard is feeling a little bitter.

  


And, fun anxiety bonus this morning, he's  _a little_ afraid that Bighead's just pretending, has been for years, and that in reality, he's only just met him too, that  _none_ of these people bothered to actually get to know him.

  


Although, when he stops letting that spiral take over his thoughts,  he can't imagine Carla agreeing to take the hours, no,  _weeks_ of time to make all the little memories Richard has, and in the end, it's her strong will to  _not_ waste her time on a project like that that makes him feel better.

  


_Eight years,_ he thinks to himself,  _reminds_ himself that no one  claims to dedicate that many years to something  _fake,_ and with that thought, he  _finally_ manages to crawl out of bed to use his bathroom.

  


Richard washes his hands and, after a moment of hesitation, pulls off his hat. He hasn't bothered actually looking at the growth progress and based all of his thoughts on feel alone, and he's pleasantly surprised to note that he can actually  _see_ hair on the top of his head and face. It's the eyebrows that make all the difference, something he'd been refusing to even think about until they started coming back, and even though he takes the time to shove the hat back onto his head he leaves the bathroom feeling slightly better about his appearance.

  


“Hey dude, wondered where you went,” Richard nods and looks at the floor. He can ignore the glasses if he doesn't acknowledge them with his eyes. “Anything you want to do?”

  


Richard shrugs. “Shave?”

  


“Sure, okay. Don't think it's an all day thing but,” Bighead shrugs. “Good to see your eyebrows again man.”

  


“They grow back at a faster rate than hair, so,” he rubs his forehead, “kind of wish they were both faster but, what can you do?”

  


“You could grow a sick beard, dude, if you wanted.” Richard shakes his head. “Suit yourself. I tried out the mountain man beard at first, but uh, some things are true out here too.” Bighead chuckles. “So yeah, gross patchy beard is kind of a universal constant for me I guess.”

  


Richard can deal with that, having some more constants in his life.  He'll focus on those, double his efforts, triple if he needs to, and  _fuck,_ he's at least  _here,_ not still hooked up to a glorified computer. That has to count for something.

  


S till, he'd like to collect some more constants, for a mental library, so he has something to refer to when he's feeling out of place.

  


“So you've never tried to go without glasses? Or wear contacts?”

  


“Kind of out of nowhere,” Bighead comments, “but yeah, a little, until I realized I'm kind of blind without them. And _believe me,_ we're going to end up with a shit ton of other stuff before we get contacts.”

  


“Right, not a priority, makes sense.”

  


So that's one differ-no, no it's a similarity, Bighead being blind. He's blind without glasses, and in response to this disability he wears them. It's a  _similarity._

  


“Want any breakfast?” Oh, unprompted even, another similarity. Bighead likes food. Good, that's good. “I usually do like, oatmeal. Good before a run.”

  


“Run?”

  


“ _We_ don't have to, dude. I took off a few days remember?” Bighead _runs_ on a daily basis, definitely _**not**_ a similarity. “But hey, that reminds me, we can start getting your muscle tone built up, if you want?”

  


Richard wouldn't  _ mind  _ getting back to what he's used to, which isn't much but he distinctly remembers being stronger than this. “Yeah, we could do that.  Certain forms of exercise supposedly help with poor metabolism. ”

  


“Can't eat worth shit yet huh?” He didn't say that _exactly_ , but it's still true. “Yeah, getting more active can help with that.”

  


R ichard's fairly certain a key part of getting more active is having the  _ energy  _ to be more active, but he'll work on that some other day. “ Been a week, so-”

  


“Yeah, no worries dude, took plenty of people a whole _month_ to get back to normal. You're not on an IV, so you're already like, _way_ ahead of the curve, or at least above average.”

  


“Oh,” he rubs his elbow, a little anxious check, still good, “well, I did receive a shot from her, but those do tend to be a short term fix.”

  


“Which is as good a segue back as any, and I know it's a shitty segue dude don't you dare make fun of me I'm trying here, oatmeal or eggs?”

  


“Eggs?”

  


“Dude the world didn't like, completely collapse. Rural areas hung on and colonies started salvaging everything from them first. It's why we're not eating that mush crap from the movie.” Right, he's actually been really pleased with the food. Sure, he doesn't have his energy drinks or cereal, but tea has caffeine and whatever else it's supposed to benefit. And, fuck, oatmeal's basically cereal.

  


So, a similarity. Good. Food is still food.

  


That's three, no two similarities? Wait that's not right, it's three, because Bighead still _looks_ like Bighead, he still smiles easy, and chatters along with Richard like he used to, and that's five, not three. Five. That's even better.

  


_It's better._

  


So why doesn't it feel what way?

  


Something still doesn't feel right, but he'll chock that up to the memories. Anxiety. Lack of an appetite. One of those. Maybe all of those. Petty, simple things with easy fixes.

  


Yeah, that's got to be the reason.

  


“Oatmeal. Probably.”

  


“Cool, want to go now or-”

  


“Who are you with?” Bighead blinks a few times, his forehead crinkles and that, that is a similarity right there. Bighead's confused face is rather comforting to see. “You, yesterday. Last night I guess. You,” he waves his hand over at the intercom. “You called someone babe?”

  


“Oh, oh! Yeah, um, yeah. I'm not single.”

  


“Okay,” they both shift their weight, Richard assumes while Bighead prepares some sort of reveal as to _who_ this person is, but he says nothing, “so?”

  


“Naw, later, don't worry about it okay? Today, however many days it takes, we're focusing on you, Richard. Sound alright?”

  


“Sure, yeah.” He tries to smile but it feels more like a grimace, and if Bighead's expression (pressing his lips together into a thin line) is any indication, he's probably right. “Let's get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to say I posted this because I'm glad people are reading, or enjoying, or something, but really it's to get this story one chapter closer to death.


	28. Chapter 28

Five days, he spends his time with Bighead. Talking with him, complaining to him, eating meals (which he's pleased to find is actually starting to go better) and Richard has come to one, glaring conclusion.

  


It's Bighead. He's the difference that's been bothering him so badly.

  


~

  


Day two, they're going into a workout space to try and start getting Richard's strength up to his normal lack of muscle tone. Richard spend five minutes lifting a two pound weight, felt horribly insecure about his ability and overall health status, and spends the last half an hour watching Bighead do a series of reps with some of the twenty pound weights.

  


“So, what, you do this all the time?”

  


“Basically, dude,” Bighead puts the weights on a small rack in the weight room, “but I thought I'd go easy, cuz, well, I thought you'd feel bad. Which you shouldn't, it's not your fault, but-”

  


“No, no it's fine. Don't change your routine.” Bighead nods and picks up a couple thirty pound weights, and Richard deflates, “oh, well...”

  


Apparently 'easy' meant the twenty pounds, and not whatever the hell he was doing earlier.

  


But it's alright. Maybe thirty isn't even that much. Richard's lifted some pretty heavy monitors and speakers in his day, so realistically he should be able to start using those soon. In a few months maybe _he'll_ be ripped like Bighead.

  


His mouth twists into a deep frown when, once again, Bighead grabs a set that's _larger_ than the last, and Richard shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweater. It's a difference. He's tried thinking of any angle to twist it into a similarity, but Bighead would _never_ work out this much.

  


Richard keeps his complaints to himself though, because after the workout they go back to listening to music, and eating food, and just hanging out for the hell of it because they _can_. The similarities start to outnumber the differences again, and Richard can put the image of Bighead benching his weight to the back of his mind for now.

  


~

  


Day three. He _hates_ jogging, Richard won't be good at it even when he's not made of clay and toothpicks, and he's _painfully_ aware of a few things. First, his right side, which should _not_ be burning like that already but there's nothing he can do about that now. Second, Richard looks like he took a shower, or he at least feels that way because of all the sweat. Third, Bighead isn't sweating at all.

  


Whatever pace Richard is managing, it's like a stroll through a park for Bighead. He hates that, just a little, watching as Bighead easily zigzags across the walkway to try and match Richard's pace, and they both know that if he tried to do it without the extra steps then he would be power walking.

  


“Bighead,” Richard pants a few times, “you can,” he feels like he's going to fall over why did he agree to this today, “go ahead, if-”

  


“Sure, okay, I'll meet you back at your room, okay?” Bighead speeds up then, to a _real_ jogging pace, and blows Richard away. Richard slows to a stop, panting with his hands on his knees, and watching Bighead speed away.

  


It feels a little like a stab to the chest, the idea that Bighead is so well versed in the art of jogging that he can't even manage to go as slow as Richard's _top_ speed. Or maybe that's his lungs collapsing because of the running. He's not entirely sure which he prefers.

  


And when he gets to his room, walking of course, because the stitch in his side tried very hard to make him fall off the damn walkway more than once, and he finds Bighead holding onto a damn pipe and _doing pull ups_ , just casually reminding Richard that he's actually strong and physically fit.

  


Bighead doesn't see him, and Richard is glad, because he turns around on unstable, tingling feet and finds a small alcove to hide in for a few minutes. Just to process the differences he's dealing with.

  


It's only one difference though. It shouldn't bother him. It _doesn't_ bother him. _It doesn't._

  


_~_

  


He can't tell Bighead it bothers him.

  


Because really, it's not fair to Bighead, who's been trying to make Richard feel _better_ this whole time. And if Richard remembers all the hours spent in his room, sitting around complaining about the lack of caffeine and sugar, then really it's not so different. Richard feels _good_ when they're just spending time together doing nothing important or note-worthy. Because those are the memories he _knows_ are real, the ones Carla wouldn't bother to make, and being able to add to those and replicate them helps.

  


But day four finds Richard loitering outside of his unit, watching Bighead from about fifteen feet away as he chats with _Gavin_ about something for the assault team. Richard knows he's doing the Muppet frown, can't help the angry turn down of his mouth as he watches the person he, for months, assumed was his rival chat it up with his _best friend_ like this is a normal, everyday occurrence. Like they're _friends_ or something. And based on the relaxed postures and easy smiles from Bighead, they definitely _are_ friends, and that's the part that really sucks.

  


The simulation was just a giant crap hole of lies, and Richard was on the receiving end of pretty much all of them, and even _Bighead,_ his _best friend,_ seems fine with lying to him.

  


Earlier, Bighead had shaken Richard awake, siting some sort of 'meeting' he needed to have, just for a few minutes, and told Richard to go back to sleep. Of course, Richard _can't_ because he had a hard enough time getting to sleep in the first place, so once Bighead had been gone for a few minutes he'd followed him, and found _this._

  


This, this little _meeting,_ this _friendly chat,_ that Bighead didn't think he could tell Richard about, and probably didn't want Richard to see.

  


Gavin reaches out and squeezes Bighead's shoulder, and Richard's instinct nearly gets him to call out for him to stop, to not do whatever he's about to do, but he just squeezes Bighead's arm, a _friendly_ gesture, really, and nods once before turning around and walking away. And as Bighead turns back towards Richard's unit he sees Richard almost immediately, based on his face, and his smile disappears.

  


“Oh, Richard-”

  


“Good meeting?”

  


“Yeah, uh, assault team, stuff, you know. The training schedule, since I'm not there.”

  


“Uh huh.”

  


“Dude, are you okay?”

  


“Fine, fine. I'm good. But can we do something like, not active today?”

  


“Sure, sure,” Bighead ushers Richard back in his unit. And the two try to act normally, but the atmosphere's been royally fucked for the day, and Richard feigns tiredness so he can pretend to nap for a few hours.

  


It's a _difference,_ and he hates differences, and he's not sure how to make them stop.

  


~

  


Day five, and Richard is just, well he's…

  


He's not good.

  


He's tried, he's really, _really_ tried to keep his complaints to himself, but he just can't. Or, realistically, if he figures out another complaint, they're all just going to flood out of him at once, so he feels very jittery and on edge. And he's _trying_ to feel optimistic about today. Because he managed to eat a full bowl of oatmeal, and Tara found some less harsh shaving cream for him to use, and there's nothing _bad_ that's happened so far today so he should feel fine.

  


Maybe he should have told Tara about his anxiety.

  


“Richard, dude, _trust_ me, nothing gets rid of frustration like using a punching bag.”

  


Punching, he can do this. Just, just ball up all that frustration and project. Make the punching bag the problem.

  


“Right, so, um,” Richard makes fists, and Bighead quickly corrects his form, and that's fine because he doesn't want to hurt himself, right? Right. He wants to do this correctly. He _wants_ to make this make him feel better. “Maybe um, you go first.”

  


“Learn by watching, right? Sure.” Bighead steps away from the bag. “So, you just need to stand behind it, like this,” Bighead helps Richard get into place, “and hold the bag, okay?”

  


Richard nods. He can help Bighead do this. It's an easy task, he just has to stand here.

  


Bighead punches once, “see? Make sure you don't let your wrist bend when you do it, okay?”

  


Richard's anxiety ratchets up a notch every time the bag shoves against his torso. But he'll be fine. It's his turn soon. And, and this is good, it's similar, no it's different-

  


It's different. Too different. Bighead, he's, he's the one calling the shots, trying to make Richard feel better, but he just feels _worse,_ and before, before he just, Richard was the fearless leader. He knew what to do, where to go.

  


“Dude, you feeling alright? Look, if you're tired or this room is too small we could go-”

  


“Who the _fuck_ are you!?” Richard feels his nails digging into the vinyl of the bag, frustrated tears already trying to fall, and Bighead, blinking, _confused,_ and _not helping._ “Just, you, you _exercise,_ and you're _telling me what to do_ , and, and why can't you just,” he shoves away from the bag and rubs his arms, “why can't you be _**you**_?”

  


“Richard-”

  


“ _ **You**_ followed _**me**_!” He's shaking, _furious_ , he finally _understands._ “Why do _you_ suddenly know what's best?”

  


“Richard I've lived here-”

  


“You _followed me everywhere,_ just, you...” he can already feel the anger changing to hurt, _genuine hurt,_ and he rubs his eyes, angry that _this_ is how his frustration, his anger, is going to present itself today, “ _I_ was the one that said what to do, and, and you just _did,_ you _listened to_ _ **me**_!”

  


“Is that what you want? Some, lackey? Or a little sidekick?” Bighead, he's also angry, as if he has any right to be, as if _he's_ the one dealing with all this change. “Fuck you, Richard.”

  


“I-”

  


“No, you know what, I _understand,_ Richard. You want some sidekick, a buddy, someone that just,” Bighead huffs, “just exists to build you up, to offer up endless encouragement whenever you need it, but _fuck,_ dude, I have my own life here. I have people that count on me, a _job,_ one where _I_ call the shots, and you're just...” He shakes his head, grabs a towel and wipes off his face, then his hands, then he throws it at Richard. “Go do something else, I'm going back to the team.”

  


“Bighead-”

  


“ _ **Nelson**_ , _okay_? _I go by_ _ **Nelson**_ _here._ And I know that fucks up your little perceptions about  me, but dude, I _can't_ _be_ _that guy_. I don't exist just to be your cheerleader. And I want to help but _fuck_ , you have to _accept_ that things are different here, and you can't _change_ that.” He walks over to the door to the workout room and opens it. “See you around.”

  


Richard finds a nice, quiet corner of the workout room, just to sit for a minute. To relax. Cool down. One of those. Something to make the shaking subside.


	29. Gavin

He want s a nice, quiet evening. There hasn't been time recently, with Richard's arrival,  and  setting up things with Peter and Carla to get him started in the coding team. It's been, well  _ rocky  _ is rather kind and Gavin would prefer to use something more like  _ nuclear meltdown  _ or possibly  _ complete and utter shit,  _ but Nelson's been dedicating nearly a week of his time to Richard, and Gavin is confident this time will help repair Richard's fragile state.

  


Having at least twenty complaints fielded to his office in under an hour is not a promising sign, all of them about a certain lead trainer for assault team, and things only look worse when Gavin finds said leader, Nelson, angrily punching one of the bags in an upper level workout space.

  


“I'm going to go out on a limb,” Nelson startles and turns, and yes, he is crying, but he's clearly more _angry_ than upset. Gavin presses on with, “that you're not pleased about something.”

  


“What told you,” he throws his gloves off at his feet and undoes his hair tie. “The smile? Or how I'm clearly in an _awesome_ mood right now and super thrilled about how today went?”

  


“You're being sarcastic,” Gavin points out the obvious, only because he's assuming Nelson _wants_ whatever is bothering him addressed by an outside party, “and _clearly_ not feeling alright, so let's just jump into the part where you say _why_ instead of you continuing to pout and attempting to break our equipment.”

  


Nelson takes a breath, Gavin has to give him some credit because he at least appears somewhat receptive to the idea, and he lets the breath out slow, and most likely while counting in his head. “Okay.”

  


“The new team tells me you attempted to have them run suicide drills for a full hour, and while I admire the attempts to increase their endurance, it _was_ the newest team, and perhaps you should start a bit slower if you're planning on getting them ready for full team status.”

  


“ _I_ ran them,” he rolls his shoulders, because he also most likely ignored every part of his body that wanted him to _stop_ running them partway through, “Richard's a fucking prick.”

  


“Come again?” And although Gavin still has a bit of the ingrained responses he relied on in the simulation, he does not, in fact, think Richard is a 'fucking prick'. “You're spending time with him, correct?”

  


“I _was,_ but,” Nelson wanders over to another part of the workout room and puts his face against the padded wall. “Richard doesn't want _me_ , he wants Bighead.”

  


“Bighead.” Gavin walks closer, leaving a few feet between them to give Nelson some space, “he wants you to be like that, I take it.”

  


“Identical is a good word.” Nelson's shoulders curl forward a bit, not enough to really notice much of a change, but he does appear much smaller than before, less sure of himself. Most definitely a bad thing; Gavin's evening is definitely going to _not_ be quiet and relaxing. “I can't _be_ that guy, though. I mean, it was, that was me, but not, well, _me_.”

  


“We all had roles. _I_ am certainly not the same person I was in the simulation.” Nelson chuckles, and Gavin decides to ignore that little implication for now. “It's not your fault the roles aren't the same here.”

  


“I know. And I know he's scared, and he's never been really good with change in the past, but I need a _purpose_ , and like, I had one in there, but the purpose was _be there for Richard,_ and it kind of… it wears on you, you know? Having to,” he grumbles, “just sit back and _watch,_ and follow along without a good reason other than 'he needs you', and I can't _do_ that anymore. I'll lose my fucking mind if I don't work with assault team, or lead the training. I can try to do both, but I can't just _drop_ everything for him.”

  


G avin has several years of experience working with Nelson, and as a result he's uncomfortably familiar with Nelson's version of losing his mind. It's something he'd rather not see happen again if he can do anything to prevent it, which he  _ can,  _ and he will.

  


“I'll speak with him.”

  


“You don't have to,” Nelson replies, and turns around, and he's crying which means that _yes,_ Gavin does have to take time out of his day to talk with Richard about his current behavior. “I'll just, I'm going to give him a couple days. Then I'll talk to him.”

  


“Nonsense, this has clearly upset you, and that's not acceptable. Richard needs to learn a few things about _priorities,_ and now is the best time.” Nelson is obviously reluctant, but he's also obviously rubbing his hands on his inner elbows again, and Gavin's resolve strengthens. “He _is_ being a prick, and he should know about it as soon as possible.”

  


~

  


He has to actually  _ hunt down  _ Richard, because he's not just sitting somewhere nice and convenient like a cafeteria or Carla's area, although she does inform him that he's finally approached her about work, which is a somewhat encouraging sign. It means Gavin can  _ actually  _ get a bit angry when he speaks with him, once he actually finds him.

  


And of course he finds Richard in his unit, hunched over a crap top (he's less than fond of the name but Carla's department, Carla's choice, and at least the name is accurately descriptive) and muttering to himself, possibly reading a few of the documents on coding. Gavin, having gone unnoticed even when he opened the door, raps his knuckles on the metal frame a few times to get Richard's attention, which it does, and he's somewhat satisfied when it startles him, just a bit.

  


“Richard. I see you're familiarizing yourself with our tech.”

  


“Um, yeah. It's all pretty straightforward. Could you explain the-”

  


“You're being a selfish, massive fuckhead and I _know_ you're having a hard time with all these little changes in your life but you can do that _and_ not drag everyone around you down to your level.”

  


Richard appears more confused than compliant, and it's  _ possible  _ Gavin should have allowed some form of preamble to occur before jumping into his main points. “I… I just wanted to know the syntax-”

  


“Nelson tells me you're looking for a cheerleader for yourself.”

  


“Oh, that, well-”

  


“Richard,” Gavin takes a moment to pause, “you are not the only person to go through a few hardships upon arrival.”

  


“Well, I mean obviously that's true, but-”

  


“Nelson is not in the real world because of you. You are here because of _him,_ and the efforts of many others, some of whom you've never even _met._ But these people you interacted with, they have _lives_ and _jobs_ and _none_ of them involve catering to your self-esteem. And before you start whining about those memories we gave you, maybe _ask_ Nelson about why he's here before you go claiming to have the saddest sob story in the colony, because I can guarantee that, compared to a lot of others, you've had it fucking _easy_.”

  


“ _This_ is _easy_?” Richard doesn't have any right to get defensive and angry when he's cherry picking the words he wants to hear. “I can't _eat_! I keep freaking out about, about if I'm even here-”

  


“I said _compared_ to others, Richard, and I _know_ you heard me. This is a _transition,_ and no, it's not easy, but people have gone through much worse than you.”

  


Richard at least  _ looks  _ like he's thinking about what Gavin's said, which is a good start. “ I know Nelson is your friend, and I'm sure you're missing how things used to be when you were in the simulation.”

  


“I don't want to go back.” It's something he sounds genuinely scared about.

  


“I didn't say you _did_ but if you do, you wouldn't be the first.” Gavin backs off a bit. “Nelson felt a bit differently.” Richard opens his mouth, most likely to ask, but Gavin interrupts, “when Nelson woke up we didn't have a liaison program, and he didn't have any friends waiting for him here.”

  


Richard is finally looking humbled by this new information, as he should.

  


“I'm not sure if you've realized this, given your current trend is thinking about how _you're_ feeling, but _both_ of you are understandably upset by whatever the _fuck_ you said to Nelson, and if you were planning on making any sort of effort to remedy this situation, I'd go with sooner rather than later.”


	30. Chapter 30

“So, um, I'm a giant fuckhead,” Richard says as he sits beside Bighead, Nelson, he's going to start to actually _try_ to drop the nickname. “I think that's kind of understating things but, well, yeah. I'm a fuckhead.”

  


“S'not your fault, or not _just_ your fault.” Big-Nelson rubs his face and shoves off his glasses for a moment, and lets them fall back into place, although they're slightly crooked. “Been kind of a crazy few days, right?”

  


“New, mostly new.” Richard stretches his legs out on the walkway, joggers be damned. “Gavin didn't, he told me to ask you about, well, stuff. And told me I was being a fuckhead.”

  


“Did he say what stuff, or just,” Nelson, it's not so bad when he thinks about it since it's not like it's a new name, nods and laughs nervously, and Richard can relate. “Okay well, I'll try and like, shorten the story. Cliff notes version, but if you want me to go into more detail I can.”

  


Nelson settles with his arms behind his head. “Well, I guess I should tell you first, I woke up on my own. And after-”

  


“Okay, um,” Richard didn't think he'd want more detail already but here they are. “Can you like, go into detail? At least a little?”

  


“Sure,” he turns towards Richard and crosses his legs, “so, I guess I was like, when I was younger I wasn't really what you'd call a happy guy.” Richard nods, partially to show that he's paying attention and partially because yeah, he remembers Nelson having bad days every so often. “So, as this, unhappy, young asshole, I went to the library to brood, or something. I was right at that 'your parents are never around' stage, where it was _trying_ to figure me out, trying to find out what makes Nelson Bighetti want to stay here. At fifteen, I found a book about lucid dreaming.”

  


“Lucid dreaming?”

  


“Yeah, where you're like, conscious but unconscious. Dream awareness and all that shit,” he waves his hand in an all encompassing way, “and I started reading about it, and reading more, and eventually I trained myself to lucid dream. It's kind of fun, really, and well, it wasn't super good because, um, I guess it meant all I wanted to do was sleep, because everything went my way in there.”

  


“You control the dream, right?” Nelson nods. “Sounds kind of nice.”

  


“It was, believe me, but not super good for like, a guy already struggling to drag himself out of bed for school.” Nelson looks away now, “but uh, one night, I was seventeen, I just, I don't know but I wanted to be, not there, and well, I woke up.”

  


“W-oh, oh like, _woke_ up,” he nods. “Okay.”

  


“It wasn't planned or anything, they weren't like, signaling me or keeping an eye out, but there I was, awake, freaked out because, fuck, that place is terrifying, but my eyes are shit so it's all blurry.” He shoves his glasses back into place. “And well, everyone's _naked._ And those wire things? Well I didn't know how to take them off, and I kind of had to, just, leave them in. For a full day. I guess there's like, a signal they get when something happens in the pod fields, and they figured out I was awake, but they weren't _expecting_ it so it took awhile.”

  


Richard was in the pod field for about ten minutes and he absolutely hated every second of it; he can't imagine what that was like for a _full day_.

  


“When I got here, they had like, skeletal forms of a lot of the programs, or I guess some of them were still prototypes? Anyway, lots of recruits and new people, so I wasn't that unusual to see, but I wasn't really the cookie cutter type, given this,” he gestures to himself. “But I was excited, and I guess that was enough to let me join assault team. They were developing these awesome mech suits, those and hydroponics are the like, big deal advancements they've been working on for ages. So, seventeen year old Nelson, with all the confusion and just feeling fucking _terrified,_ got a new goal. I wanted in that fucking suit.”

  


“I liked biking a lot, in the simulation, even before I woke up. It was really relaxing. I wish I could do it more now, but there's not any good paths here. A couple of the other colonies, maybe, but transferring's not really something I want to do.” He smiles. “So I do it in the simulation whenever I get the chance.”

  


“But uh, you're not in the suits.” Richard points out, and Nelson shakes his head. “So?”

  


“I wasn't tall enough. I'm _still_ not, I guess.” He shrugs. “But yeah, eighteen year old Nelson had to deal with _that_ fallout after Gavin pulled me aside, and uh, I didn't really handle it well, at all.”

  


“Fuck, they had to like, _know_ that you weren't tall enough, right? That's kind of a dick move.”

  


“He didn't _know_ that I wouldn't grow. A lot of people shoot up after they get out of the pods. Hell, Donald grew like, a foot and a half. _You_ might even grow some. But, yeah, he thought, or hoped maybe, that I would get tall enough. And it's not like I couldn't still be on the team, plenty of guys made the team but couldn't do the suits.”

  


“Why can't they, I don't know, make it fit you?”

  


“Don't have the resources to do anything but mass produce, one size fits some. I moped around for about half a year. And then Gavin put my name in when Peter decided they wanted someone to be in the simulation with you, as a sort of partner or, you know. A friend, I guess. Maybe you seemed lonely? I didn't really watch any of the archive. Carla did, she had to so she could make memories we would've both experienced. That day, at the camp was super weird. I mean, it was weird as _fuck_ because that morning you thought we'd been hanging out for years.”

  


He takes off his glasses, blinks fast, and hell, Richard is _not_ ready for one of them to start crying. “But we, you just connected with me, and we fell into this, I don't know, comfortable friend dynamic; it was something I could really dedicate myself to, something I couldn't fuck up too badly. And it was _fun,_ hanging out, and I guess time got away from me a lot.”

  


He pulls down one of the bands he always has around his elbows, and Richard starts to stutter out a question, but he can't get the first word out. They're old, obviously, the scars, needles, or maybe IVs, Richard's not sure but it looks painful. “IVs. I stayed jacked in overnight a lot, got dehydrated if Tara didn't hook up fluids.”

  


“Fuck, Big-Nelson.” He snorts at his mistake, finds that kind of funny, but he feels like he's going to start crying. “Why?”

  


“It was like the lucid dreaming.” Nelson wipes his eyes. “I don't know, I wasn't _happy,_ being in this place when, surprise, my dreams were fucked over again, all the reminders. In there, we fucked around and hung out and it was just, _easy,_ and fun, and I have friends here but you're my _best friend,_ dude. But they didn't want to pull you too early. You still had shit to _learn,_ and then there were some close calls with probing attacks, a mech almost went down. It wasn't _safe_ to pull you, at least until after you finished college. But then you dropped out. And then you were depressed,” Richard almost protests, _almost,_ but he doesn't have a good argument against, well, the _truth_. “You wouldn't have done well if you woke up in the middle of that.”

  


And Richard's not really sure if he wants to think about doing _worse_ at transitioning than he is now. “Yeah, well, you know, college was- fuck, the camp got me through my freshman year. Coding like that. Same with sophomore year, only we went to that museum.”

  


“What about junior year?”

  


“Tech convention, the one we _really_ went to. Remember that music thing you kept talking about stealing?”

  


“The Tesla coil? Fuck yeah. I still want one too.” He kicks Richard's leg, and Richard only manages to realize last minute that he's trying to keep him from being trampled by the joggers. “Man, hey, why don't we go somewhere where you won't get stepped on.”


	31. Chapter 31

He didn't expect 'somewhere' to be the selvage room, but it's the first time he's been in here, and honestly, digging through a warehouse sized room for random shit to put in his room is rather appealing.

  


When he first heard it called this he expected the items inside to be in pretty rough shape, but aside from some dings or scratches a lot of the items are actually in fair condition. It reminds him of a thrift store; nothing is particularly sorted or organized, but if he digs hard enough he's bound to find something he likes.

  


“So, what should I expect to find?”

  


“Depends on what you want I guess,” Nelson calls from another aisle. Richard tries to see where he is through some of the shelving, but either he's a lot farther than Richard thinks or the stuff is just that thick, because he can't seem to catch even a glimpse. “I found a turntable once, but vinyl doesn't survive well between sunlight and being more fragile. Or I guess sometimes there's furniture, like shelves or other shit. Think of it from a college perspective, you know during move out times?”

  


“Dumpster diving?”

  


“Exactly.” Nelson comes around with a long rolled up tarp. “Man I hit the jackpot here. You see anything you like?”

  


“I don't know where to start,” Richard admits as he pulls a few jars off a shelf. He has no idea what he'd put in them, but they're organizational tools in the right hands, and he's a _big_ fan of organizing. “Say, um, Nelson,” he notices the small smile on his face after he says his name, and Richard feels a some delayed guilt for thinking of him as Bighead for so many days here, “I, I'm sorry about-”

  


“I know, Richard. Me too, because, well, if I'd just told you sooner, it wouldn't have ever happened, but I didn't want you to get worked up about the whole thing. Seriously dude, just understand that I've grown out of being Bighead, okay? Is that a good way to think about it?”

  


“Um, yeah, actually,” he remembers plenty of people telling Bighead to grow up a little, and apparently he already has.

  


“Cool, that's awesome,” and although Richard knows there's going to still be an awkward transition from Bighead to Nelson in his head, he's _maybe_ starting to warm up to Nelson. “And dude, some things can still be the same. Not the like, staying up all night or well, the whole 'being your sidekick thing' or shit like that, but we're still hanging out. You can bounce ideas off me when you're coding. And now that I have this,” he holds up the tarp, “we can work on a project I've been fucking with for a few months.”

  


Nelson brings Richard by his unit before dragging him across the walkway and up a couple levels to a somewhat larger unit near a cafeteria. Inside is fairly similar, with some added space and _two_ desks, but whoever else occupies this space isn't home. 'Babe' most likely, or maybe Nelson just has a roommate.

  


“So, why did you need a tarp?”

  


“Tarp, fabric, anything big as long as it was white, or I guess cream colored in this case.” He stands on a chair and starts hooking the tarp to the ceiling using some clamps and other hardware. Richard realizes it's canvas when he touches it, and he helps by mostly just staying out of the way until Nelson asks for another clamp. “Awesome, okay, so I've been fucking around with some projectors and some of the simulation data, and I think I've finally fixed a bug I was having.”

  


“You code?”

  


“Some. Everyone knows the basics, but I didn't get much further than manipulating music and other stuff so I can have it here. Not much time.” Nelson grabs, oh, they're joysticks. They remind Richard of Atari systems, just simplistic button and stick model. Apparently the bug was for a game. “And _maybe_ I got Carla to set up a two player version, but that's the only help I got.”

  


Nelson turns on the projector and turns off the lights, and Richard can't stop laughing, because fucking _Galaga_ shows up on the screen, and Nelson looks so damn happy that it's even on, and when it starts playing correctly he about knocks Richard over because he's so damn excited. This, this is the 'Bighead' he was missing, the one that loves _fucking_ Galaga, and gets excited when his shit actually works, and even though Richard's never been a big fan he finds himself playing with Nelson for _hours._

  


And, just like before, somewhere around hour three Nelson basically passes out on Richard's shoulder. It's comfortable, and familiar, and even though things aren't _exactly_ the same, he's starting to realize that, maybe, they aren't as different as he thought.

  


Which is why the knock on the door is so jarring, but Richard recovers quick enough, and after helping Nelson slump to the floor he walks across the unit and opens the door.

  


“Oh, um, Gavin?”

  


Gavin raises one eyebrow. “You _do_ realize it's two in the morning?” Richard shakes his head a little, and Gavin nods. “I thought not. Now, if you _please._ ”

  


Richard is not entirely certain what's expected of him, but Gavin moves him out of the way and enters the unit. And, well, Richard turns around and watches, um, he's not sure actually, not at first, not until Gavin he actually coaxing Nelson off the floor and, well Richard supposes kissing is fairly normal in a relationship and-

  


Well, Richard knows when he's not wanted, and two in the morning in Nelson and _Gavin's_ unit is definitely one of those times, so he quickly turns around again and closes the door. It takes him a few moments to collect his thoughts.

  


“Things are different here,” he mumbles, nods to himself, and decides to just block this from his mind for now and process everything later.


	32. Donald

Richard is smiling today.

  


It's such a sudden, abrupt change from the past week that the sight of that smile, the bright, wide smile that crinkles the edges of Richard's eyes, takes Donald by surprise. He's stunned, no, startled, but overwhelmingly _pleased_ that Richard is feeling better enough to smile like that.

  


And he's working with Carla. It's just the basics, and he's already cussed out his crap top at least three times since Donald entered the workspace to speak with Carla, but it's that same happy/frustrated look Richard gets. He's determined to, as he put it, 'kick this crap top's ass'. Donald doesn't point out that the thing that's truly frustrating him is the code and not the crap top itself, because it's already a metaphorical 'ass kicking' rather than a physical one.

  


Still, he's incredibly pleased, and not entirely sure what he's supposed to do now, with Richard apparently not needing the company Donald was about to offer _before_ said smile froze him in his tracks when he first saw it this morning.

  


“Again, Donnie?” Carla whispers. He's thankful she's being polite; Richard is focused and Donald would hate to be the reason he loses his momentum. “You've been in here to,” she air quotes, “talk to me,” and slaps her hands down on her lap, “three times today.”

  


“There aren't any new residents.”

  


“Cool, awesome. If you're going to sit around staring at Richard can you at least make yourself useful and start explaining some of the projects we want him to do?”

  


Donald nods. Although, if he lets Richard get more familiar with the code first, then he'll have a better foundation to work with once he starts on the projects. Donald shifts his weight and presses a fist to his mouth.

  


“Oh for the- will you just go talk to him?”

  


“We didn't, that is, I haven't-”

  


“Not even when he got the crap top?” Donald shakes his head. He's not all that proud to admit he'd clammed up almost immediately after Carla left, but he was uncertain what topics would be acceptable to Richard at the time, and the inability to decide crippled his ability to speak. “Fuck's sake, just go over there.”

  


Donald nods, again, and again, he can't get himself to move.

  


“How old are you?” Donald feels a flush fill his cheeks with warmth, and he holds up three fingers and a zero, one on each hand, because for whatever reason his mouth feels like cotton. “The answer was old enough to go _the fuck_ over there and talk to him, Jesus.”

  


“Carla-”

  


“String bean, Donnie, you're like a brother to me, and it's my job as your big sister to get you to stop acting like a scared little baby and talk to him, because if you keep coming in here to pretend you're here to see me I'm never going to get my work done.”

  


“I don't want to upset him.” He's been petrified of ruining their friendship by saying the wrong thing, or doing something Richard won't like. It's silly, really, because isn't it his job to _help_ Richard now that he's here? But every time he opens his mouth around Richard he thinks of that flinch, and his voice is lost. “I already have, once. I don't want to do it again.”

  


“You probably won't, and if you do, I know you'll bend over backwards to apologize, so it's not even a big deal, okay? Now _get_ over there, bean.” She actually _shoves_ him over towards Richard, and he manages to catch himself, but not without making an audible gasp and stomping a couple times as he catches himself on a chair.

  


“Oh, hey,” Richard raises both eyebrows, he definitely noticed the near fall, and turns back to his crap top. Donald rubs the new blush he's developing and quietly pulls out the chair. “Been awhile.”

  


“Yes,” Donald's voice cracks and he can hear Carla snickering from her station. “You look well.”

  


“You're joking right?” No, never, Donald couldn't imagine using negative- “because I threw up like, four hours ago. Just, you know, I was more hungry than I have been, and I overate. Tara says it's fine.”

  


Donald feels at least ten different emotions while Richard nonchalantly admits to vomiting today, and that he's apparently already taken the initiative to see Tara. The mix of good and bad emotions leaves him feeling a bit shaken, but overall positive? Possibly? Or perhaps he's worried. No, he's definitely worried. “O-oh.”

  


“Yeah, no fever though.” He sips from a canteen and sets it aside. “She says I just overdid it, probably, and well, fuck that's not really a surprise. I got kind of excited when I had an appetite again.”

  


“That's wonderful. Well, not the nausea, but...” And he had so much more prepared in his head but the appreciative look Richard gives him stops any of them from coming out.

  


“Yeah, don't worry about it.” Richard hums, “Say, I should thank you, for helping me with this whole transition.”

  


“I'm sure Nelson was much more helpful,” Donald admits, and he feels it's the truth, so Carla can't claim he's trying to be too humble this time.

  


“Well, sort of, but you showed me around. And you've always been good at explaining shit. And, just like, being here is pretty awesome- fuck.” Richard frowns and oh no, Donald has managed to upset him _already_. He's such a terrible- “Say, do you know anything about this coding language?”

  


“What?” Oh, right, of course, he's learning a new language. “Unfortunately, not much. I'm familiar with the syntax, and a few basic functions. You see, Carla's been tweaking this particular-”

  


“Oh, awesome, actually. That's the part I'm fucking up.” Richard closes the crap top and stands. “This, Jared. Sorry, Don-”

  


“It's alright.” Just knowing Richard's making a conscious effort to change how he addresses Donald is more than enough. “You're making an effort.”

  


“Yeah, hard habit to break I guess.” Richard chews on his lip. “So, this could take me all night to figure out, and I don't want to fuck around in here, bugging Carla all day,”

  


Carla interjects with a “please for the love of God leave.”

  


Richard coughs once, “so maybe we could, I don't know, relocate? Could stop by selvage for some shitty side tables or something on the way to my unit.”

  


“Well, I suppose Carla would appreciate the space.”

  


“Did I _not_ just tell you to leave?” Donald frowns over at Carla and she waves. He shakes his head and she does that strange thing with her eyebrows that reminds Donald of the wave.

  


“Right, so,” Richard scrunches up his face, and his mouth fights to form a word, “Don-”

  


“Really, it's fine, you can still refer to me as Jared for now if you like.”

  


“Okay, if you're alright with it I guess,” Richard points to the door. “Should we go?”


	33. Donald

Donald was not prepared for the implication that goes hand in hand with going back to Richard's room alone.

  


It's presumptuous, really, to think that this is more than Richard wanting to be in his comfort zone. He's always looked far more comfortable in a quiet space with his music, and plenty of caffeinated energy drinks within reach, and his laptop, crap top in this case, sitting on his lap as he tackles another earth shattering algorithm or code.

  


But possibly, maybe he wants to talk with Donald? They've been apart for about a week, and even though Richard appears to be doing better he hasn't engaged Donald in conversation at all until a few minutes ago. Perhaps he intends to speak with Donald about something personal? Maybe something he said upset Richard and it's taken him all this time to muster up the energy to be in the same room with Donald. The time between the coding workspace, a trip to the selvage room, and across the colony to Richard is incredibly stressful for Donald, but he keeps his concerns to himself, assuming Richard is forming some sort of speech in his head.

  


Richard brings back a small side table from the selvage room. It's in rougher shape than most of the furniture Donald has seen brought in, but it has two drawers and Richard's already put a few jars on the surface, obviously claiming it as his. There's nothing in the jars, or the drawers, but they're items Richard chose for himself, and Donald can't help thinking they're very appropriate for Richard's unit.

  


“Do you have any like, decorations or anything in your unit? I just keep grabbing jars for some fucked up reason.”

  


Donald certainly doesn't think Richard's aesthetic choices are 'fucked up' but he keeps his comment to himself. “Some. I have a metal sign with a giraffe on it, but that's Carla's doing. Although I have started knitting, and there was a large collection of yarn in the selvage room in one of the other colonies. So I suppose the shelving I use to store that counts.”

  


“Knitting?” Donald nods, and he's rather proud of the progress he's made with his new hobby. After all, it's one of Donald's hats that Richard is wearing.

  


“Yes. I wanted something to keep my hands busy and it also provides the colony with much needed items for new residents. I actually made your hat.”

  


“Yeah, it's really warm,” Richard raises one hand to his hat, and for a moment Donald thinks he's going to remove it, but he returns his hand to his lap before he moves it even a little. “Better than walking around bald.”

  


“I found having a hat very helpful when I first arrived here. The temperatures tend to be cooler than most people are completely comfortable with, and with the lack of hair new residents tend to lean towards wanting their heads covered.”

  


The lack of any sort of complaint or concern from Richard is both comforting and worrisome. He's thankful Richard appears to be in better spirits, because why _else_ would he invite Donald back here? Could he really have only wanted help with the code syntax?

  


“Cool. So like, is this close to any languages in the simulation? Or all those a bunch of shit?”

  


“Wh-oh, yes, of course,” _focus Donald you're here to help him, so_ _ **help**_ , “I believe Carla would be better at describing the nuances between simulation languages and coding out here in the real world, but I suppose you could say they're not _dissimilar,_ but you'll notice some wording changes, and-” and Richard is staring at him with such a genuinely interested and attentive look on his face, there isn't a single hint of any discomfort or frustration in his expression, and Donald loses his train of thought completely. “Well, ah, you see-”

  


“So it's like, cousins?” Donald nods, and he's embarrassed to realize he didn't actually process Richard's comparison until after his response. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  


Donald is beginning to miss the confidence he felt in the simulation, back when he knew things about business planning and presentations, back when he knew that his answer was one hundred percent correct and helpful. But here, right now, he's at a loss. His expertise is helping people feel more at home (even if he's always felt a bit out of place, even here with Carla  encouraging him  and thousands of success stories) and from the looks of things, Richard is feeling very at home here, at least enough to start working again.

  


His usefulness is gone, and he's terrified of what comes next.

  


But he didn't lie when he told Richard he knows the syntax, and over the next half hour he leans in over Richard's shoulder and helps him start to piece together a messy text doc full of half written functions and algorithms. Around the end of the first hour Richard starts to really find his stride, and even though some of the actual wording still trips him up he's able to outline a basic framework for his communication system Carla's wanting.

  


“Say, could you go run over to Carla and ask for some like, details about this project?”

  


“For the communication system, correct?” Richard nods. “Of course.”

  


“Thanks, oh, so, what do you think of this?” Richard turns and faces Donald from the front, and Donald finds himself focusing on Richard's eyebrows. Or, he's decided to comment on their progress if Richard asks, because the idea of telling Richard his eyes look very blue feels _far_ too personal. “I was thinking about how and where Carla would want this… whatever the fuck she wants to call it, because having a bunch of people walking around with like, earpieces sounds kind of stupid and, I don't know, suspicious? So, what if we put something  here,” he reaches a hand towards Donald's face and Donald freezes, watching as the fingers get closer, and closer, and deviate off to the side enough to brush past a bit of his hair, and tucking it back whether that was the intention or not, and Richard _touches_ the spot right behind his ear, just behind the lobe.

  


He turns so red and  _ hot,  _ his cheeks feel like he's put his face in a sauna. And Richard doesn't seem to notice, or he's at least not acknowledging the change, and he continues where he left off. “Here, see, it's like, people touch behind their ears, and it can be a pressure point or something ( _ or something, right _ ) and turn the communicator on and off, but not have it be visible to anyone.”

  


Donald does not appear to have the ability to speak right now, so he nods vigorously, partially because Richard's idea is very solid, and partially to dislodge his hand from remaining behind Donald's ear.

  


“So, yeah, can you see if that will work for Carla? I don't really know what she wants this thing to do.”

  


Donald leaves Richard's unit, still nodding and mumbling to himself, although if anyone asked what he's saying he's certain he wouldn't have an answer, and he takes about ten extra minutes to walk back to the coding room in order to cool down his flushed cheeks.


	34. Carla

Carla, being an intelligent, observant person, notes two things in the following couple of days. One, and probably the most important, is the obvious upswing of Richard's mood. And although she's certain he's far from acclimated, she's glad his new somewhat positive outlook will mean Donald won't come around moping and sad near as often.

  


Two, perhaps she's been underestimating just how sad something can make Donald, because two days after she _gently_ shoved Donald over to jump start their conversation (which _worked_ even if he did gripe about her rash behavior regarding how he handles his friendships) he appears by her monitors _again_ with a sad pout on his face.

  


“What the hell did you do now?”

  


“I had a dream, um, about Richard.” He fidgets, directs those damn eyes Carla's way, and there's not a doubt in Carla's mind that whatever this dream is about, it's _clearly_ something important.

  


“Okay,” she turns and urges him to sit. “So, is this some sort of prophetic moment? You're going to tell me all about how Richard's life is in danger?”

  


Donald huffs and stares at the floor. Whatever this new is, it's _huge._ “The dream. It was… explicit in nature.”

  


Oh.

  


_Oh._

  


“Ho-oh my God, I am so proud of you.” Donald covers his face with his hands. “I'm being serious. This is amazing. Everyone thinks you're this pure, innocent creature, but really you're just full of sin.”

  


“I can never talk to him again,” he groans, and puts his face down on Carla's knees. “That was _incredibly_ rude, and improper, and-”

  


“Donnie, honey, oh my God I'm still amazed this is probably the best day of my life, _at least_ the best day this month.” She pats the back of his head as he hides. Carla is perfectly capable of both gloating and comforting someone at the same time. “Seriously, and you spent _how_ many months convincing me I didn't know shit?” Donald tries to press his face into Carla's knees _more,_ which hurts because he's a twig but he's a _strong_ twig, and at the rate he's going he's going to push her out of her chair. She smacks his back gently. “Stop that. So you didn't know you have a crush on him. It's not the end of the world.”

  


“I _can't_ distract him from his duties, Carla,” Donald finally looks up, and Carla's mildly shocked by the obviously pained expression on his face. He _genuinely_ believes that he can't pursue this. “He's here because he can _help_ and all I'll do is pull him away from his work.”

  


“You're joking? _I'm_ the only one you ever seem to distract, and I still get my shit done.” Donald sits up and tries to move away, and Carla realizes he thinks she's asking him to leave her alone, because _of course_ he isn't thinking of himself. “Hey now, where the fuck do you think you're going?”

  


“I was just-”

  


“Nope, come here,” she reaches out an arm, a sort of 'get over here and hug me you fucker' expression on her face, and despite the fact that Carla _knows_ she doesn't actually look like that much of a hugger Donald latches himself around her shoulders without her having to ask. “You're such a dummy, you know that?” He just burrows himself against Carla's shoulder. “You _do_ know you can balance work and relationships, right? Cuz, you know, it's kind of how _most_ people handle this situation instead of, you know, freaking the fuck out and hiding.”

  


“I'll just be a nuisance, Carla.”

  


“No you won't, because you're always looking out for the other guy, okay? And, hey, look at me a second,” he sits back and Carla puts her hands on his shoulders. He's pouting still, but not as depressed as before. Clearly, Carla is awesome at this. “You _do_ realize you don't have to tell him anything, right?”

  


“Yes, but-”

  


“Nope, listen to me you little shit. I can already tell you're thinking of hunting him down and confessing,” Donald droops, gotcha, “shit Donnie you went from never speaking again to wanting to tell him _everything._ Just give yourself a couple days, okay? Go pretend to have something to do, or I don't know, how about you try to find me more weird metal shit in the selvage room and I'll try to weld it together.”

  


“Okay.” This poor fucker is going to spend a few _hours_ hiding out, Carla can just tell when he's going to clam up and go 100% introvert on her, but at the very least Carla might get some new shit to make a shelf or something, and it gives him a little goal to accomplish that _doesn't_ involve him trying to talk to Richard right now. “Um, could you tell Richard…?”

  


“You're busy, I know,” Carla lets Donald hug her again, “I'll make sure curly has plenty of shit to do to distract him, okay? You do your little hermit thing and try to pretend you have some sort of chill, and when you _actually_ have some chill, _then_ you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

  


She pats his back a couple times before he lets go, and watches him as he walks out of the coding room, not looking any more confident but at least not throwing himself at Carla and lamenting everything about his world. “That fucker's doomed.”

  


“We're going to throw out a couple guesses,” Carla turns and, lo and behold, tweedle dee and tweedle fuckhead are standing off to the side in the shadows like the creepers they are, and Carla gets to have a talk with Dinesh and Gilfoyle. Joy. Dinesh continues as if Carla isn't glaring at the two of them. “And by a couple I mean he's super fucking obvious.”

  


“You guys _can't_ tease him about his stupid crush. I have dealt with that fucker hiding this from himself for _years._ ”

  


“You say that like he _hasn't_ been acting this way in the simulation all fucking year,” Gilfoyle adds, and Carla nods sadly. She is _painfully_ aware of how deep Donald's denial truly is, or was now, so that's some improvement at least. “It's painful to watch, and he's usually so entertaining to observe.”

  


“Carla you know we're not actively looking for ways to make fun of him, but he makes it way too fucking easy sometimes.” Dinesh deadpans, and Carla mentally prepares to give him the _worst_ assignments. “Okay you're making that scary face again.”

  


“Look, that idiot is like a brother to me, and I'll concede like, making fun of his height again,” which she is not actually super thrilled about but honestly Donald won't notice given his complete lack of and semblance of calm right now. “Just give him enough time to stop being such a goober about this and it's fair game, okay?”


	35. Chapter 35

Richard never thought he would really get himself into a comfortable routine in the colony, but he finds himself  five days into his first project for Carla and comfortably settled into a somewhat normal  daily ritual.

  


Shower, first and foremost, even if his only reason is so he can feel the difference of his hair length without having to look at his still nearly bald head.  He can at least  _ pretend  _ his hair is growing longer every day  even  if  it doesn't look  like there's been any progress.

  


Next, Bighead- Nelson. He's Nelson, and Richard has done a good job of at least addressing him as Nelson, even if his mental narrative  keeps falling back into old habits. Anyway, next,  _ Nelson  _ insists they go for a walk, even if it's just a short one  across the colony, and Richard is somewhat pleased to  observe his endurance is starting to improve.  His actual strength is another matter, because he keeps getting too embarrassed  because he can only lift a five pound weight in front of anyone,  _ especially  _ Mr. I Can Probably Bench Press You, so Richard's stopped going to the weight training area with Nelson.

  


He's tried dragging Ja-Donald. God that one is even harder to remember; it's not like Jared isn't a name on its own.  But every time he tries  to find Donald- fuck, no, no he's trying but he can't think of Jared as anything else, not just yet. He's tried  getting Jared to go with him, because he's always been impressed with any and all progress Richard has made even if it's lifting a measly five pounds,  but every time Richard tries to find him he's “busy” according to Carla.

  


Richard doesn't mean to sound irritated but based on Carla's eye rolls and general frustration every time Richard asks her about Jared's whereabouts he has a right to be, because for some reason he's being avoided.

  


“Carla-  
  


“No.”

  


Richard huffs. “I was going to ask-”

  


“Look, Richie, he's being a complete baby about this, and you're just going to have to-”

  


“Do you want executive control over the voice thing? Like, um, do _you_ want to turn it off from here?”

  


“Oh, fuck,” Carla leans back on her chair and tosses a stress ball up into the air. “No, sometimes I don't know when an op needs silence. Leave that function on the user's end.”

  


“Okay, cool,” Richard turns to leave, then immediately turns back. “So Donal-”

  


“He's been hiding out for _days._ He might be in one of the back rooms over that-a-way,” Carla points towards a back room in the coding workspace. “No guarantees though.”

  


“Right, okay, thanks,” Richard ambles back to the back area of the coders' workspace, and it's not that he didn't _expect_ \- okay so he got kind of startled when Dinesh and Gilfoyle were pulling a needle thing out of somewh-oh, oh it's just Nelson. Ho fuck that is a long needle.

  


“Welcome back short stuff,” Gilfoyle offers Nelson a small glass of water and a towel. “I swear to fuck if you tell us we're setting up a new room _again_ -”

  


“Naw,” he drains the glass and throws the towel over his shoulder. “Set up rooms A and B, and bare-bones it for now. Carla needs a jacking station too.”

  


“Fuck, I hate having to jack for Carla,” Dinesh grumbles and Gilfoyle snorts. “Shut the fuck up Gilfoyle and help me get this shit ready.”

  


Richard just stands awkwardly to the side of the door until Nelson notices him, “oh, dude, hey. This is good timing actually. So I talked with Peter and Carla, and he thinks you should start your sim training _now_ rather than wait.”

  


“That's a needle.”

  


“Huh? Oh, yeah dude but don't worry. There was one just like that already in the pod.” Oh he did _not_ want to hear that little tidbit of information today. “They don't hurt okay? These guys are pros at this.”

  


The “pros” drop a piece of equipment in the background and start arguing, and Nelson steers Richard out of the back room. “Dude, don't _worry_ okay? Carla and I will be right there, and in the simulation-”

  


The what now?

  


“Simulation?”

  


“Just for some training exercises, it's a breeze, and the sooner the better-”

  


“No.”

  


“What's that?”

  


Richard shakes his head. “No, no simulation. I… I just _got_ here and...” and he's still having trouble some days with that whole 'he's actually out of there' concept. And he hasn't quite gotten over the anxiety of _having_ plugs in his arms. Plus more than once he's been paranoid that he should be cleaning them in some sort of special way, but he already went to Tara a couple days ago for something for a headache and told her he was feeling _better_ , and anxiety is most certainly not something found in the better category.

  


“Dude, hey, listen,” Nelson grabs Richard's elbow, “I know it's freaky, okay? You haven't been in there in awhile, and now you _know_ what it is, and it's some scary shit. It's way better if you do this now while there _isn't_ any sort of emergency, and after you're trained you probably won't have to go back in all that much. But we're controlling the environment entirely, okay? Remember that room at Hooli?”

  


“The auditorium?”

  


“Yeah, that one. It's a safe zone. Nobody can get in but us. And you're not going to be alone. And dude, if you want I bet they'll let you drag Donald in there with to help you feel relaxed. He's good at that shit, it's his _job_.”

  


“I haven't talked to him in awhile.” And he didn't see Jared back in the room with the chair Nelson was in either. “Carla said, well that he would be there, but it was just you and that _fucking_ needle so, that kind of sucked.”

  


“Right.” Nelson looks pained about something, “she uh, you're going to have to get Carla to release that info if you want to know where he's at.”

  


“Great, that's good.” He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and prepares to argue his case to Carla. “See you.”

  


Carla leans back in her chair as Richard walks over and swivels so she's looking at him right side up. “Why do you look like you're about to pass the fuck out?”

  


Well maybe he didn't take the time needed to really process the needle he saw, and yeah, Richard can feel a bit of the clammy cold in his hands. He takes a few deep breaths to avoid passing out and by the third breath he's managed to convince himself he's okay, but just in case he takes more until Carla stops looking at him like he's about to die a little.

  


“So, I guess I'm doing some sort of training, or whatever. Little warning would be nice, you know.”

  


“Of _course_ you heard about that.” Carla turns her chair back around. “I suppose shorty told you you're safe and all that shit?”

  


“Yeah, he did, but interestingly, he said I could bring Donald,” that one's still hard for him to say, and the name feels a bit heavy in his mouth, cumbersome, but Carla looks marginally more willing to listen to him after he says it, “only no one will tell me where he is, so I guess I'll just have to postpone this little-”

  


“His unit, probably. He's doing a great impression of a hermit right now.” Carla taps a few keys in what looks like a chat client and Richard reads over her shoulder long enough to see a 'Donnie' reply with a 'yea', “ho boy he's probably not sleeping.” She can tell that from a 'yea'? “I don't know if he did this in the simulation but the boy's _obsessed_ with proper sentence structure out here. Do me a favor, yeah, and try to get him to sleep maybe? Or at least lie to me when you get back here so I'll feel better about the poor idiot. Training's tomorrow.”


	36. Chapter 36

Richard doesn't muster up the confidence to actually go to Jared's unit until the next morning, but by then he's feeling a little better about the needle that is going into his _head_ in about an hour. He knocks on the door and shifts his weight a few times, tapping his feet against the walkway railing while he waits.

  


And it isn't until after he knocks a third time that he realizes that maybe he was sleeping, but the door opens and Jared is looking, well he's not great, and those scarily familiar dark circles are back, and Richard has to remind himself that this isn't TechCrunch, it's a stupid training day, and he told Carla he would check up on him for her so, check complete, and Richard waves once before turning and hoping Donald will just take that as an okay to go back to sleep.

  


Richard is not at all prepared to handle Jared when he's in this state, and the sudden appearance of arms around his shoulders is startling, but not terribly surprising. “Um, Ja-Donald? Donald. You're uh… you look like shit.”

  


Yes, he is very good at this. Clearly Richard has a future in being a liaison.

  


“I've been having some trouble sleeping.” His voice is doing that wibbly, fragile thing again oh fuck. And, added bonus, Richard was not ready for him to speak that close to his ear. Richard blushes and pulls Jared's arms off of him. He's doing that kicked puppy thing and Richard fidgets. “Have you been making progress? Did you need help? I think I remember pivoting, yes, that was a concept we talked about.”

  


“Oh, yeah, a little, but I think I got it. No need to pivot, or whatever you're thinking of doing.”

  


“I've missed you.”

  


“Oh.” And Richard blanks hard. Jared when he's well rested is good, and helpful, and Richard enjoys his company, but a sleepless Jared, especially one with the dark circles, is just a painful reminder of some pretty dark shit he's had to deal with in the past. “Well-”

  


“I'm done avoiding you, Richard. It was just as selfish.” As what, Richard wants to ask, but Jared doesn't elaborate. “I'd like to be more involved with your work, if you'd like.”

  


“I'm doing training,” he offers up as a sort of conversational segue, one that will _hopefully_ steer clear of any 'pivoting' or some of the other less sensible things Jared said during TechCrunch, “and I guess you're invited? But, you should do your thing,” and by 'thing' Richard means sleep but he's not sure that will happen.

  


“I'm sorry, I've been avoiding you,” and Richard feels a small spark of hurt from that comment, maybe some sympathy discomfort from Jared's pained look, “but I meant to...” Jared trails off and Richard doesn't try to fill in the blanks. He's not really sure where Jared was going to go with that. “Richard, is my presence helpful for you?”

  


“Well, yeah, J-Donald.” His face brightens and _maybe_ that's a good motivator for Richard to try harder to think of him as Donald instead of Jared, soon. In the near future. “You know the syntax, and I got lost a couple days ago when I wanted lunch without you there.”

  


“Yes, of course,” Jared droops a little. “I've been here for a long time, so I should hope I'm good at navigating.”

  


“And, well,” Richard is _terrible_ at formulating his thoughts about Jared, and why he likes having him around, but there's just something _comforting_ about knowing where he is and that he can help when Richard's dealing with a bit of a coder's block, or just to provide a bit of quiet company, even if they're not actually saying anything to each other. “I um… I think if you're not there today I'll probably throw up. So, I guess I really don't want that to happen.”

  


“If I'm there, you _won't_ feel anxious?” Richard nods and despite the tired eyes Jared looks much more awake and aware of his surroundings. He shuts the door to his unit. “Well, I can certainly lend my services if they'll be of assistance. I'm glad I can help.”

  


Glad probably doesn't really cover whatever emotion Jared appears to be feeling, but the boost in his mood makes him look and sound a bit less tired, so Richard files it away for another time.

  


-

  


Richard is fairly certain he'll still throw up even though Jared is here standing by his chair, offering a hand and some gentle words of comfort as Dinesh and Gilfoyle silently prepare a number of wires and that _damned needle_ for Richard's reentry.

  


“Richie, Dinesh here will be the one manning my station, and I'll see you inside,” Carla explains from her own chair. “I got the prototype you sent me of your comm system, and I'm installing it on my avatar as we speak. Personal policy, I always test out the new tech shit, because you jacked in babies aren't used to how it's supposed to normally feel, let alone attaching random crap.”

  


“Does he know what he's doing?”

  


“Richard for fuck's sake, you _know_ me,” Dinesh certainly does _seem_ like nothing's changed aside from his wardrobe, so that is a comfort and a source of Richard's anxiety at the moment, “and Carla's made me do this shit like, a thousand times before she even trusted me to put _her_ into the simulation.”

  


“For good reason.”

  


“Don't go blaming me just because you made all your shit overcomplicated. I know what I'm doing.”

  


Richard settles back as Gilfoyle sets up Carla, and then turns to Richard once she's, apparently, inside the simulation. She looks like she's asleep. “Alright, lucky you Richard, you get the long speech.”

  


“Long speech?”

  


“Rule one, do not move around while I'm setting you up. You're going to be getting this guy at the base of your skull,” he holds up the _needle_ and Richard squeezes Jared's hand, “and your first reentry is a fucker, so be ready to throw up simulation side.”

  


“Great, that's comforting.” Richard would honestly already be out of here if Jared wasn't looking so enthusiastic and exhausted at the same time. “What else?”

  


“You will be entering in a safe zone, that means that nothing we didn't put into the room can get in, and you guys can't get out into the main simulation. This is a good thing,” he must have noticed Richard's concern, “because that fuckhead over at Carla's computer is _not_ who you want as a wingman on this end.”

  


“I _heard_ that, Gilfoyle!”

  


“Inside, Carla will brief you on the ins and outs of what you can and cannot do in there. Yes, you can do some 'super human' shit, but don't get cocky and try to fly or some shit.” Gilfoyle pulls a lever and the chair lays back. “The needle does not hurt, but if you've ever imagined what it's like to let someone fuck your brain, I'd say this is as close as it gets. Congrats, you are briefed.”

  


Why did he agree to go back in there?

  


“Going simulation side in one, two, ten.”


	37. Carla

Carla watches as Richard enters the safe room, stumbling, looking like he just vomited _everywhere_ and she shakes her head. “Richie, you look like shit once again, but I'm starting to see why you're bummed about not having any hair yet.”

  


“Yeah, bet you really envy this fucking mess huh?” Richard is doing a great job self-deprecating right now, so Carla concedes and lets him tease himself instead of doing him the honor of fucking with him. “Quite the catch, if I do say so myself.”

  


Yeah, if he only knew how well he's hooked Donald.

  


“Anyway, as the first person you're encountering on your first trip back in, it's my job to officially welcome you to,” she does a little wave, “the simulation. Trust me this is way more exciting when I have time to program some shit so the room changes colors or whatever, but Dinesh probably can't handle the execution anyway.”

  


“Haha fuck you too,” Carla winces as Dinesh's voice fills her ears, but not _quite_ her hears. Maybe just her brain. “You and Gilfoyle can go jump off a fucking building, see if I bother to care.”

  


“So this place is _safe,_ right? You said no one gets in or out without your say?”

  


“Exactly. Now, shall we?” Richard nods. “Alright Richie, first, welcome back to this boring as fuck room,” he glances around again, as if this white cube really needs time to get reacquainted with, and Carla continues, “we've designed this as an all purpose chamber, which we change to fit our needs. Currently, we're working on a nifty plan to _not_ overwhelm you right away.”

  


“Well it's too late because I already threw up in the entry room,” he says, proudly at first, then he seems to realize what exactly came out of his mouth just now. Carla is having such a hard time not calling him Kermit while he makes that dumb face.

  


“Just think of this as a blank slate, okay? We'll change it when we start actually doing shit.”

  


“Yeah, makes sense.” For having thrown up recently his avatar (essentially his person but Carla's gotten pretty detached from the concept ever since she started recoding avatars in her free time) isn't jittering too badly, so that's a good start. “Why do you look like you're in a video game?”

  


Carla looks down at her awesome armor she finished coding a couple months ago. “I made my avatar some armor. What's it to you?”

  


“Aren't you usually out there?” He points to the ceiling, which isn't actually meaningful in any way but gets his point across.

  


“Fine, I'll take precious time to break this down for you. I used the model for Calhoun's armor in Wreck -it Ralph and tweaked it so it would be battle ready. This shit resists bullets and a bunch of other shit, plus it looks awesome.”

  


“You're just wearing that shit because Jane Lynch was the voice actor,” Dinesh mutters in her ear. She already hates these new comm units. Or maybe she just hates not being able to turn them off. “Are you just ignoring me or is this shitty thing broken?”

  


“When you say something useful Dinesh I'll respond.” Carla flips her hair back out of her eyes. “Now, for the low down, rapid fire version of an explanation. First and foremost, neutrals. People that don't know about their situation. Then there's Erlich, which we'll get into later but just know he's trustworthy. Us, the defectors-”

  


“Not the 'good guys' or something like that?”

  


“I'm not getting into a perspective argument today Richard, we can talk morals another time. Us, defectors.” She takes a breath. “Them, the machines, and what have you. Also including Russ Hanneman,” she gestures at the wall, hoping Dinesh will bring up a photo, but he lets her down and she sighs, but continues, “resident shark-eyed AI-”

  


“He's a fucking AI? Bullshit. That tech is _years_ from being fully functional.”

  


“He's an AI,” Carla continues, “and his function is to weed out the defectors when we jack in.”

  


Richard fidgets. “So, when you say 'weed out' he-”

  


“He kills them, yeah.”

  


“Can I go back to the real world now?”

  


“This,” she's just going to have to ignore any commentary if they're going to ever finish, “is a safe zone. Hanneman can't access these points. It doesn't get safer, in the simulation, than right here.”

  


“Um, sure,” he certainly doesn't _look_ sure, but whatever.

  


“Seriously, don't stress. But be forewarned, we can't just go pulling you out right away, because that could cause some _serious_ brain damage if we're not careful. We just need to give you the time to get acclimated to being in here, and once you're at a baseline we can pull you back out. Usually, oh, five minutes? Less once you've been in here more.”

  


She watches Richard shift from foot to foot. “How much less?”

  


Carla tilts her head back to think. “Oh, I'm down to like, a minute. And we'll unleash you to _another_ safe zone when you start going past this room. Plus, you'll be armed with whatever the fuck weapon you're comfortable with.”

  


“I don't think I can use a gun.”

  


“Well lucky you, that's your choice. Tonight, your assignment will be designing a weapon for yourself, so go ahead and start brainstorming now, hell I bet you can convince Donald to help out, and don't be afraid if things get a little weird.”

  


“Weird?”

  


“Be creative.” He blinks. “Your _weapon,_ Richie. Keep up.”

  


“ _If things get weird_? Was that a fucking innuendo?” Dinesh groans. “Of course it was, pervert. We need a fucking HR department.”

  


“What weapons do people use?”

  


“Shorty's got a taser, basically. I personally like using a sword-”

  


Dinesh interrupts, the fucker. “Because Carla has a lady-boner for Xena too.”

  


“Excuse me that's not true.” She has a lady-boner for that knight from Game of Thrones.

  


“Who are you even talking to?” Richard asks. “Wait, right, is that working okay?”

  


“Add the shut off function and I'll call it a success. Now, the main thing to remember about combat in here is you still need practice. We'll start you off small, just in this room, so I have one question; have you seen Dodgeball?”

  


“What?”

  


“Movie, not important.” Carla pulls out a gun from the case embedded in the floor. “They used wrenches but that's no fun, so I got this little rubber bullet gun curly, and we're going to see how well you can dodge these little fuckers. No pain no gain.”


	38. Carla

Carla leans against a wall of the safe room and looks skyward, annoyed at the lecture she can already envision from Belson about 'scaring new recruits' and 'really Carla if you're going to waste time at least have the courtesy to not waste other people's time too.” Sucks a dick to have to listen to that. Really since when is a little joke at Richard's expense not funny?

  


And today she has the added bonus of Donald in her ear, simultaneously chastising her and making pained cooing sounds on Richard's behalf. Lovely.

  


“Richard is very sensitive Carla,” Donald explains, _again_ , and she sighs, _again_ , “has he moved at all?”

  


To his credit, Richard did do an excellent job curling up into a ball of defense (terror) right after Carla started miming taking a shot, but his ability to snap out of defense mode isn't quiet there yet. In other words, “no, he's still doing that pill bug thing he's so good at.”

  


“Carla, don't tease him.”

  


“Donnie he isn't listening.” She's fairly certain he stopped breathing partway through this little episode, but when his shoulders clench tighter she assumes that means he's still alive and didn't _actually_ petrify from fear.

  


“Did you install the comm on his avatar as well?”

  


Carla shakes her head. “You know my policy.”

  


She can imagine the face Donald is making based on the whining. He wants to help, she gets that, but she doesn't see why she has to listen to this. “You're the one that wants to deal with this, so why don't you _do_ that?”

  


“Carla, I request permission to enter the safe room.”

  


“Jesus Donnie you're a big boy, you don't need my permission. Just get your skinny ass in here and get him off the floor.” She pauses. “While you're at it get Nelson in here so we can show Richard some sim sparring.”

  


The silence following leads Carla to assume they're getting Donald prepped, and Dinesh's voice in her ear confirms this. “Gilfoyle's getting him set up. I don't see why Richard gets special treatment when you used a real fucking gun when you pulled this trick on me.”

  


“He's a tender heart I guess. None of you thought to tell Richard I've pranked literally every single person I've trained in here?”

  


“Yeah, I was getting shit set up for your little lesson, and I guess Donald was too busy holding Richard's hand to bother telling him about the prank.”

  


“Cute.”

  


“That's not the word I'd use.” He sighs. “Donald entering in three, two, o-”

  


“Richard?” Well that took no time at all. Carla watches Donald as he kneels by the curled up lump that used to be Richard and offer him is hand. God, holding hands twice in one day? Donald's going to implode at this rate.

  


Carla keeps her comments to herself for now because Richard is genuinely freaking out a little, and she'd rather not add to the talk she's going to get to have later.

  


“Carla, Nelson's on his way,” or now, since apparently Belson is taking over, “and I'm going out on a limb assuming you're traditional prank is what brought this little episode on.”

  


“You could say that, but hey, I did use the rubber bullets in my spiel.” She takes a moment to look back at Don- at a hug, apparently. She is going to give him so much shit about his crush later.

  


“Richard is rather delicate on a good day Carla,” Gavin explains, which is worse than a lecture, “and I'm sure Donald will give you an earful about his little issues regarding just about everything he encounters on a daily basis.”

  


“Does this mean I'm off the hook from a Belson brand lecture?”

  


“It means I recognize that you're going to hear plenty on the subject once those two stop whatever the hell they're doing.”

  


Carla checks and, Jesus, they're still hugging. This is getting downright uncomfortable to watch. “Yikes, yeah, I'll be getting 'reamed' (gently scolded as if she's the younger one) about this later. Can you get us a change of venue? Scenario B probably.”

  


“Nelson's jacking in first.” Heh, yeah he is. “Why am I getting the impression you're making a joke to yourself?”

  


“Can't be my poker face, so I'm assuming you've developed telepathy. Use it wisely, and I'd stay out of Nelson's head if you want to get shit done.”

  


“Noted,” Carla snorts at his faux-serious response, “now, if you're done, I need you to get out of that ridiculous outfit-”

  


“Armor, Belson, come on. Not you too.”

  


“Change into your sparring gear and Carla, for my sake, try to keep things relatively tame. We're not expecting Richard to be in the simulation all that often, but I'd prefer if he wasn't terrified every time he does on in, deal?”

  


“Sure Belson, deal,” Carla makes a wide circle around Richard and Donald, who aren't hugging anymore thank fuck, but Donald is still keeping a hand on Richard's back and- shit, Carla can tell he was probably crying, that's not great. She motions to Donald when he looks up with a hard expression making tiny creases by his eyes. Still, she follows her after another moment with Richard.

  


“Okay, don't give me that look,” he continues to frown at her, “I'm sorry, okay? And I'll tell Richard too so don't give me any of that crap about apologizing to the right person. Nobody said Richie is this sensitive still. Thought it was fair game. My bad.”

  


“He's afraid,” Donald peeks over again, probably making sure Richard hasn't managed to break down again already, “he's worried about leaving. If he'll be able to, I suppose,” he bites his knuckle and _there's_ the real emotion Donald's feeling under his stern disapproval, “and I can't do much to ease that fear until his training is over.”

  


“Good news, we're shifting the plan a little, me and Nelson are going to spar and you two can just watch so he can chill. Give the guy fair warning, we're changing to Scenario B. Room's going to do some crazy shit as it shifts.”

  


“Perhaps I could bring him to the entry room? It usually doesn't shift as dramatically.”

  


“Cool cool, whatever little private time you want, just give me a little time to change.”

  


“Of course,” and he's ignoring her 'private time' comment, fine, “and maybe don't bring your sword.”

  


“But Donnie I _like_ that sword.” She paps a fake punch to his arm, and he smirks.

  


“You never have told me why you prefer swords.”

  


“You haven't told me why you prefer them either.”

  


Donald blinks, “I don't…” she makes a phallic motion with her hand, and he gets it, “ _Carla_!” His cheeks darken, and even if he was about to deny anything he makes the mistake of looking back at Richard again.

  


“I'm so proud you figured that out,” she pats his shoulder, “c'mon Donnie, I'm just fucking with you.”

  


“Carla,” a very pained, very exasperated Gavin grumbles in her ear, “please try to remember that, with your new comm system, I can _very clearly_ hear the conversations you're having with other people.”

  


“You haven't told me why _you_ prefer swords either Belson.”

  


She can only imagine the face he's making. “I pray for just _one day_ when I won't be asked a question that puts my optimism for humanity to the test.”

  


“You're like the dad in this fucked up family, we _have_ to make you question humanity.”

  


“Please never think of me that way again,. You're only eight years younger than I am.”

  


“Details.” Carla waves and walks off to a hidden door so she can change.

  


“Now, if you're _through,_ Nelson's entering the simulation in three, two, one.”


	39. Chapter 39

Richard is only _somewhat_ unsettled when they reenter the room and it's reminiscent of a high school gym rather than the pristine white room they were just in, but this comes with the promise that Richard can just sit and watch, _and_ whoever coded this room was thoughtful enough to put in a relatively squishy couch on one wall, so all in all it's a welcome transition from Carla's 'prank'.

  


She apologized, and offered to let him punch her, which he declined, because even though she said it with the intention of making them 'even' he knows attempting to hit her would most likely just end up with him feeling embarrassed at his lack of strength. It's the thought that counts.

  


Nelson only waves when he enters and immediately turns away from them and faces Carla. He falls into a loose stance and Carla does the same.

  


“Gonna kick your ass this time shorty.” Carla cracks her neck to one side and Nelson pops his knuckles. “Don't be afraid to punch me in the face.”

  


“Never am,” he sidesteps a few times. “Say Richard you want a narrative or you gonna pretend you know what the hell we're doing over here?”

  


“Can't I just go with a third option?” He's not really into the idea of learning to fight. “Just, I don't know, we'll pretend I actually knew what the fuck was going on when we played fighting games or whatever.”

  


“Sure dude, whatever you want.” Nelson turns back. “No holding back because I'm short Carla.”

  


“Ha fucking ha,” she lunges at him and he moves to the right. “Gonna hold you to that later pipsqueak.”

  


While Carla and Nelson warm up, or whatever the hell the circling thing they're doing is, Richard takes a couple minutes to really find the ideal position to sit on the couch. He can't _quite_ get comfortable, and for some reason it's an odd concept to really come to terms with, and it isn't really obvious to him _why_ it's so strange until he remembers his lofted bed.

  


“Ja...” he taps Jared's hand instead of finishing or correcting his mistake and Jared looks over at him, “um, this couch isn't that comfortable?”

  


“Um, oh! Oh, Richard, when you were still in the pod there were, I think the best way to describe them is as a muscle relaxant? It's what made you so comfortable when you were unaware.” Oh, well that makes sense. He was just drugged. Great. “I wouldn't dwell on it, you'll get acclimated to a new level of comfort.”

  


Richard knows the longing he has for that comfortable bed is exactly what the simulation wanted him to feel, so he tries to push that out of his mind. “It's okay, I guess. For a couch made of code.”

  


Jared hums. “That's an interesting way to put it, but not inaccurate. All of this is code.”

  


Richard nods. He focuses on the sparring after this, noting the way Carla and Nelson move so effortlessly, and how he's never felt he was capable of _running_ competently, let alone fight. Punch, dodge, Richard shakes his head; he can't really follow what they're going, only that they're moving in sync, ebb and flow.

  


They remind him of a street fighting game, all rapid punches and equally speedy dodges and blocks, neither _really_ getting any sort of hit on the other, but maybe that's the point, to move the same, anticipate, and not actually land any damaging blows during practice.

  


Richard is more than a little worried that once he _does_ actually learn to fight he's going to hurt someone. Or he'll think he's too good at this and get hurt instead because he's in way over his head. He thinks of the phrase 'mind over matter' but he's also trying to overcome twenty some years of being told he's essentially the embodiment of a weak nerd. “They look fake.”

  


“Richard they are fake, at least, their bodies are. That's the whole idea. These bodies we control in the simulation, they're essentially clay, and your mind, as the hands, can mold them to do as you like.”

  


“Keep in mind Richie, I need to tweak your avatar some still.” Carla takes a gut punch and gasps, but lunges and tackles Nelson to the ground, “and- _shit_ tiny you've been practicing- once I'm done making adjustments you'll feel less like you're well, you.”

  


Nelson rolls them and tries to pin Carla, “and dude, we'll do shit like this in the real wor-” Carla throws him and he yelps, “we'll _practice_ , Carla I swear to fuck, and you'll get the feel. Think of it as second puberty.”

  


Yeah that's not comforting. But watching Nelson manage to do what turns out is a back bend to toss Carla off him is pretty impressive. “Do you ever like, parcour or something?”

  


“Nah, mostly just sparring,” Nelson gets Carla into an actual hold, but she's doing her damnest to toss him, “assault team's given me an edge,” and Carla escapes, and gets Nelson pinned with one arm wrenched up, “ _fuck_ okay, you win.”

  


“Told you I'd win.” Carla stands and stretches. “Sparring's fun and all, but gotta remember Richie, you can get hurt here and have it fuck shit up out there.”

  


“If we were _really_ trying to hurt each other, trust me, someone would be bleeding.”

  


Richard gets the feeling that maybe Carla won _because_ Nelson has to keep himself in check. “Haven't you guys ever wanted to like, practice on something you can't really hurt?”

  


“AI fighter? Tried getting something like that up and running, but it's low priority.” Carla points a thumb at Nelson, “and these bozos are _dynamic_ fighters _,_ Richard. I can't get an AI up to dynamic fighting and adapting like that without sinking some _serious_ time into the program, and they'd probably figure out a pattern anyway.”

  


“We practice pretty much everything, mixed arts style. Keeps everyone fresh.” Nelson flexes his hands and, yeah, Richard thinks he can see a few lines of tension, and his eyes are _wide_. “Carla can we get a punching bag or something?”

  


“Got yourself a little worked up huh?” She walks over to a closet for this room, maybe a storage area, and starts dragging out a bag. “Richie, rule two, Nel's got an issue with his hormone levels, so if you get him jazzed up, be ready to help with the wear down too.”

  


Nelson punches a few times, light taps, and Carla braces her legs when he starts hitting _hard_ and fast, faster than Richard's ever seen a person move. It's kind of terrifying. “I once saw him sleep in a sunbeam like a cat for like, three hours. What the fuck does she mean by 'jazzed up'?”

  


“Nelson has trouble leaving the simulation when he's energized like this. Tara believes it's because of his frequent overnights here; normally being in the simulation is akin to daydreaming, or perhaps lucid dreaming, your body isn't supposed to react to what you do in the simulation. Yourself, and most others, come out of the simulation feeling the same as when they went in, but Nelson's physical body produces the same amount of hormones that it would if he was _actually_ moving like this in the real world. Couple that with his depression-”

  


“His _what_ now?”

  


“Depression. It's mild, but coupled with his hormone overproduction it leaves him feeling very nauseated and imbalanced when he leaves if he doesn't also expend that energy. They've found the best way is to actually wear him down to the point of mental exhaustion, that way his body uses up the excess adrenaline. He'll be tired, but otherwise feeling normal.”

  


“Doesn't that mean he _shouldn't_ come back in here?”

  


“He's alright for short trips, or if he's not planning on doing anything too physical. Sparring on the other hand-”

  


“It's like playing, right? It's not like, fake, but...” Richard's not really sure where he's going with this anymore. He's still trying to work through the whole, 'Nelson has depression' thing.

  


“Nelson trains hard for assault team, and as a result, the 'edge' he mentioned earlier is his stamina, which is quite impressive, but it means he ends a sparring match feeling warmed up, while his opponent is often worn down.” Jared taps Richard's hand and stands up from the couch. “They'll be here awhile, but if you'd like to get out of the simulation I'm sure you're cleared for a return trip.”

  


He wants to ask about this, or maybe ask Nelson about this, or another tempting option is to just never address this again unless Nelson brings it up. Richard's never been great at confronting his own problems with all sorts of things, let alone someone else's issues. “Yeah, I think that's a good idea.”


	40. Nelson

So, Donald told Richard about the whole, depression and hormones and whatever else Tara calls it thing, and Nelson's not mad or anything because it's fucking _Donald._ The guy lives to explain things and Nelson never told him this was some sort of secret; it's just that he wasn't sure he was all that prepared to have some sort of heart to heart with Richard about the difference between 'Nelson has a few bad days' to 'if any sort of thing were available Nelson would probably be on some sort of medication', but it was bound to happen sooner or later.

  


And he's not going to worry Richard about there not being medication or anything, because Nelson _does_ see one of the few therapists the colony has on a semi-regular basis (Patrice really is a champ and she helps out _a lot_ ), and honestly he's maybe hoping to use this as a sort of introduction in case _Richard_ wants to start seeing someone about anything.

  


And so, Nelson makes himself somewhat available for the next week in case Richard wants to shuffle over and discuss anything, but the 'd-word' topic never comes up while they're working out and Nelson chocks it up to Richard being Richard and not feeling comfortable addressing it right now.

  


In any case, Richard isn't being any more awkward than normal, so Nelson pushes thoughts about the 'impending' conversation out of his head so he can focus on more important things, like getting Richard better at sparring in the real world so he won't make a fool of himself in the simulation.

  


It's going about as well as he expected.

  


“I won't actually punch you Richard.”

  


“Okay, but I did some estimating last night-”

  


“For the,” Carla groans and throws a towel at Richard's sweaty face. “Richie for the last time, we will not hit you. This is _practice_.”

  


“I did the math and I think a glancing blow still has the potential to cause damage, but I'll need some hard data to confirm. Maybe a force plate.” Richard makes that Muppet face he always makes when he's not getting his way. “Until I learn otherwise I'm not going to take that risk.” Richard scrubs his face with the towel and tosses it over one shoulder. “You've both like fucking black belts and I'm learning fucking _c_ _anasta_ or some shit.”

  


“Isn't that, whatever,” he's pretty sure Richard's just trying to illustrate his point and whatever the fuck 'canasta' is doesn't actually matter, “maybe we could find a different person for him to spar with,” Nelson offers, looking at Carla.

  


“Like who? Richard's, no offense, right about being at shit tier.”

  


“Okay, well, who's the least trained fighter in the colony?”

  


“Peter?” Carla cringes as she says it, and Nelson mimics her reluctant look, “I doubt he even knows as much as Richard, honestly. It's not a viable option.”

  


“Okay so he's out, what about,” Nelson looks over to their audience, aka Richard, and has an idea, “hey, Richard, can you jog?”

  


“What?” Nelson makes his arms move back in forth in a running motion. “I know what it is Nel.”

  


That's a new one too, Richard calling him Nel, but it's a new nickname and it's nice to be at that level of closeness again. “Dude will you start jogging laps? I know you know what it is.”

  


“Right,” he's blushing, or maybe just sweaty and overheated. Either way he starts making laps around the workout room.

  


And now that he's not eavesdropping quite so hard, “is Donald trained at all? Richard would probably feel more comfortable.”

  


“Hard pass,” Carla shakes her head. “Bean's about losing it already with this stupid crush. I'm not going to make him 'wrestle' Richard and get him more flustered than he already is, which is a lot.”

  


“That bad huh?” 'Bean' is reserved for moments when Carla is feeling particularly sentimental and/or Donald is being particularly precious about something, where precious is usually painfully awkward, but still, precious in his own way.

  


“It's unbelievable. I'm honestly shocked he isn't here right now 'showing his support' for Richard.” She rubs her eyes. “The guy got flustered about holding Richard's hand.”

  


“So he's out,” Nelson watches as Richard slows to a walk, “arms up dude it helps with breathing.”

  


“Fuck breathing,” Richard calls back, breathless and panting, but he does put his arms on his head and Nelson can see his chest expanding from the effort.

  


“His body is not made for running,” Carla comments.

  


“It's honestly not made for most things.” Nelson admits. “But he's getting better.”

  


“His code work is solid at least.” Carla adds. “The comm system is super convenient. You didn't feel weird with it in your avatar right?”

  


“Nope, sound is clear too.” He starts stretching a bit, intending to get Richard transitioned into a proper cool down. “What about Tara?”

  


“She's pregnant,” Nelson notes Richard making a quiet choking sound, “she's still kick his ass.”

  


“Shouldn't she feel kind of nurturing or something?” Nelson has no clue how pregnancy works but Tara's already pretty nurturing on her own.

  


“Or like a mother bear. We should really get an outside opinion on this.”

  


Gavin is going to hate them, but that doesn't stop Carla and Nelson from walking over to the intercom and paging his office. “Belson, quick question for you. Before you ask, yes, it is important.”

  


“What do you want Carla?” Ho boy he's already sounding pained.

  


“Would you approve of Tara being Richard's sparring partner, and do you think her being pregnant makes her more or less likely to kill Richard on accident?”

  


Gavin is really quiet for about a minute, then, “well I suppose today is not the day you avoid making my faith in humanity shrivel up and die a little.”

  


“Horrible pipe dream you got there Belson,” Carla chirps. “Well I'm assuming that means you don't approve.”

  


“She is _pregnant,_ unless you've already forgotten. I'd imagine her doctor would appreciate not making his job any harder than it already is.. In any case, I have an idea for Richard's training,” Gavin replies.

  


“What, you'll do it?” Nelson snorts. Silence. Nelson steps closer, “Gav?”

  


“That's not a bad idea, actually.”

  


“Wait really?” Nelson didn't expect this. Gavin usually claims, rightfully, that he's too busy to help with any training. “Why?”

  


“Richard, understandably, still holds some animosity towards me regarding the way I treated him in the simulation. Giving him permission to essentially punch me in the face could start to clear some of that up.”

  


“Yeah okay,” Nelson turns around and, oh, uh, Richard's right behind them, listening, “dude you uh, say does that sound good to you? Training with Gavin?”

  


“Tara's pregnant?”

  


“That's what he's hung up on?” Gavin asks, the tinny feedback from the intercom making his voice sound squeaky. “Never mind. Richard, I'll meet you in the workout room tomorrow morning.”


	41. Gavin

Fighting, or sparring as Gavin prefers because it suggests a certain level of choreography, is something Gavin is well versed in, but with his busy schedule he's often away from the workout room for weeks at a time. He hasn't admitted to anyone that Nelson easily bested him the last time they sparred together, and he's uncomfortable with the thought that Carla, who sometimes bests Nelson depending on the amount of dirty tricks she plays, could also beat him. He's known them both during the early starts of their relative adulthood, his own included, back when Carla was a sarcastic young woman with stick-like arms and Nelson was short and gangly.

  


Given his eight years on Carla and nearly fourteen on Nelson have been less than kind to his general fitness level, but he'll be damned if he lets _Richard_ best him when he's been in the real world for a month.

  


Predictably, Richard shows up with Donald in tow, and Gavin represses a groan as he waves back at Donald's excited greeting. _At least he's apparently sleeping,_ Gavin thinks, and the absence of the all too familiar 'raccoon eyes' he's prone to developing is certainly an improvement.

  


“Needed an audience Richard?”

  


Richard blushes and puts his defensive (muppet) face on, “he's going to watch my form or whatever you want to call it.”

  


_Yeah I bet he is,_ Gavin sighs. “Donald, how about we schedule a 'form session' once Richard has the basics. It'll do him no good to over-correct him on the first day.”

  


“Right, of course,” droop, visibly deflate, and now he's Carla's problem, presumably, “I'll come find you during lunch Richard. Gavin, a moment?”

  


Gavin is very familiar with that concerned tone, and h e follows Donald to the door of the workout space and crosses his arms, waiting for him to speak. “I'm sorry, Richard wanted me to come. He's been in what Carla calls a 'mood' ever since yesterday afternoon. I should be going.”

  


Of course he is.

  


Richard appears to have lost a lot of steam now that he doesn't have his little posse with him, but Gavin is certain the session will go much more smoothly without Donald trying his damn hardest to help and appear useful. Down the road, sure, Gavin will justify his presence, but he's already mentally prepared himself this morning with the assumption that he's going to have to teach Richard to throw a decent punch, something he assumes could take several hours.

  


“I'm going to ask this and I'd appreciate a genuine answer, have you ever tried to punch anything?”

  


“Yeah,” he crosses his arms, “I just, fighting isn't my strong suit is all.”

  


“I'm assuming you hurt your hand.” Richard's refusal to answer in anything other than a grunt says quite a lot. “We'll start from scratch, alright? If I didn't know you in the simulation-”

  


“You didn't.”

  


“I see we're starting this already,” he mumbles. “Richard I'd assumed a few days ago that we were on better terms.”

  


“I felt sick that day,” Richard mumbles back.

  


“Richard, I would like to acknowledge that I was not exactly _warm_ or _inviting_ while in the simulation, if _you'll_ acknowledge that I am clearly _trying_ to help make you feel welcome here.”

  


“Maybe I feel welcome around _other_ people.”

  


Jesus Christ. “You  _do_ remember we're on the same side, right?”

  


“So? I don't have to like who I work with. Can we just start this so I can go?”

  


There are very few times when Gavin wishes he could have some of the luxuries in the simulation, but dealing with a very irritable Richard alone, with no human buffer to help balance his mood, is making Gavin long for a very large, very alcohol heavy glass of wine right about now.

  


“I suppose I can blame myself for this attitude you have,” he says quietly, mostly to himself, but Richard's bark of laughter lets him know that he definitely heard Gavin. “And here I thought you were starting to feel better about everything.”

  


“Everything? Sure. You? Fuck no.”

  


“Richard I know that isn't _true,_ ” because he can site at least _one_ conversation they've had that wasn't angry or passive aggressive, so the evidence is in his favor. “I've been nothing but cordial-”

  


“You threatened to fuck me on a desk.”

  


Gavin sighs, knowing Richard is A) absolutely correct and B) never going to let him live that down even when they  _are_ on better terms. Still, he knows he should try and smooth things over. “I'm certainly not going to deny this Richard. If it's any comfort at all I don't plan on making any threats like that in the future.”

  


“Would have preferred never,” he grumbles. Richard is certainly feeling better adjusted nowadays if this is the kind of thing he focuses his anger on; Gavin is torn between being glad and letting the weariness overwhelm him completely.

  


“Richard, I'm not going to pretend what I said and did you you wasn't a bit… tasteless, but based on extensive research and observation, we determined anger and frustration to be some of your strongest motivators. You can't deny that some of your shining moments were born from our animosity filled interactions.” Richard isn't fully glaring at Gavin anymore, which is definitely a sign of progress. “I recognize that I made you uncomfortable, and I'm sorry, and I'm not discussing this anymore.”

  


Richard mulls that over a bit, tilts his head and bites at his lip, and huffs. “This doesn't make us friends or anything.”

  


“I'll find the willpower to go on somehow. Shall we get started?”

  


Richard looks to the ground, and then back up at Gavin with a pointed stare.  “I can't believe you're fucking him.”

  


“Wh- ah.” He was wondering when this would come up. “Richard, if it makes you uncomfortable to imagine,” and he's sure that's what Richard has been doing even if he's going to sit around denying it all day, “the fact that Nelson and I are romantically involved, just remember that it _doesn't_ concern you, but we're already in agreement to refrain from any sort of PDA. If you want any sort of consolation for yourself, it appears that Nelson can convince me to do things for him if they're within reason, unfortunate but true, and if you ever go to him with any sort of complaint I'm sure he'll somehow manage to convince me it's something I should potentially _change_ about myself.”

  


Richard's angry mask cracks just a little, enough to let him smile for a second before letting his face fall, “now, if we can get started, I'll graciously allow you to punch me, unguarded, if you're able.”

  


“I can punch,” Richard practically growls, and he's attempting something that resembles a fighting stance, and Gavin starts mentally planning out the steps needed to get Richard to medical when he inevitably breaks his hand attempting to punch Gavin in the jaw.


	42. Chapter 42

It's not broken. Richard isn't made of fucking  _glass,_ but he definitely needs some practice punching anything harder than a pillow. He fucked up one of his attempts to hit a punching bag (he's rather proud about his punch to Gavin's face, which is just barely showing redness but also didn't fuck his hand up) and his wrist made an awful popping sound and still hurts when he tries to move it too much. But he's managing to walk to medical unaided, and barring any unseen long lasting injury he has another session with Gavin scheduled for two days from now.

  


“Tara?” He slips into the main room and eases himself up onto one of the gurneys to wait.

  


“So you just make sure to, well look what the assault team dragged in.”

  


Richard feels a cold, uncomfortable fear settle into his stomach as a  _horribly_ familiar face appears from the other room, Tara following close behind him and smiling and not at all alarmed that the crackpot doctor from the clinic is in  _her_ med bay.

  


“Richard, I'm sure you've met-”

  


“Yeah yeah, um, so I hurt my wrist and-”

  


“Long time no see Richard!” He's going to regret ever coming this way. Richard should have just ignored his wrist and gone to his unit. “Based on that hair I'm guessing you've been here what, two weeks?”

  


“A month,” Richard mumbles, quiet.

  


“I wouldn't worry too much about any potential baldness if I were you,” and he wasn't before now, so that's good, that's cool, “but hey, if you never grow any more hair then that the jack-in team will _love_ you. No hair to interfere with the equipment.” Yep, that's definitely his priority. “And maybe you should focus on those arms of yours if you want people to think you _don't_ need me for a doctor.”

  


“I'm… why is that-”

  


Tara steps closer and starts checking over his wrist. “He's the colony's OB/GYN and pediatrician. There aren't that many children at this colony.”

  


“So, I had a _pediatrician_ when I was in the simulation?”

  


“We wanted someone to keep an eye on your perceived physical state, and I couldn't jack in right now, doctor's orders.” Tara smiles and gets an ice pack out of a cooler. “Hold this on your wrist for me.”

  


“Oh and Richie, this one, _actually_ pregnant.” He snaps a finger and points at Richard once in some sort of weird solidarity, then leaves the med bay.

  


“So I had a _pediatrician_ ,” Richard asks again.

  


“He was the best option we had given the circumstances, and he's really good at his job.”

  
“So the whole, he's really _like_ that?” Tara nods and starts gently massaging his wrist. “I didn't break it right? It popped when I punched the bag.”

  


“I'm not feeling anything, and you're not screaming so that's a good sign. This doesn't hurt too bad right?” Richard shakes his head. “Good. I'll give you an ice pack to take to your unit. Rest it until the swelling goes down, and if it starts hurting come back here because you could have gotten a hairline fracture, but I'd rather save our X-Rays for someone with a bit more damage. It's probably just sprained.”

  


“Good.” He nods. “So um… you're pregnant?”

  


“Only a few months.” She starts wrapping Richard's wrist in some of that muscle strain tape. “And it's not like it's the first one or anything for the colony.”

  


“Gilfoyle?” She nods again. “So when you came-”

  


“I was checking up on you, a little. The plan was to have me start being your doctor, but then I found out about the pregnancy and stopped jacking in.” She steps back and grabs a second ice pack. “Maybe you should start working on a weapon for yourself. I know Nelson has a taser he uses, and others usually have small hand held things like that. In case hand to hand really isn't your thing.”

  


“Maybe,” he _has_ put some thought into that, but he's been focusing on finishing his comm code for Carla. “Can't really practice anymore today anyway.”

  


He returns to his unit, and finds it occupied by Jared, which he expected, and food, which he didn't. “Richard! Gavin mentioned your,” he points to Richard's wrist, “I'm terribly sorry I wasn't there, but I ran over to the cafeteria on this floor to get you some soup.”

  


Right, he was planning on eating lunch with Jared. “Oh, thanks J-” he just stamps down hard on the name and accepts the container of food. “Tara thinks I should work on my personal weapon, if you have any inspiration?”

  


“I don't have one,” he admits. “But I've worked with Carla long enough to see all the current options. Perhaps some sort of stunning weapon? I think most people tend to target Russ, and electrical shock is often enough to cause a fault in his AI programming.”

  


“What about um...” Richard isn't sure what he's trying to articulate, but he knows the concept, so he opens up his crap top and starts typing with one hand to set up the physical frame for his idea. “Sound?”

  


“Sound…” Jared parrots back. “I'm afraid I'm not certain what you mean.”

  


“They're like, sonic?” That, that's the word.” Yeah, sonic weapons. You can like, incapacitate people, in theory at least.”

  


“Can you make it small enough to carry? The actual weight isn't a concern, but streamlined is generally better.”

  


“Probably, if I fuck around with the code long enough.” And if he can convince Carla to make the actual physical frame because modeling has never been Richard's strong suit, but he's starting to visualize the actual code to allow it to fire, reload, and whatever else he can imagine wanting his weapon to do.

  


“What if you made it a glove?”

  


“A glove?”

  


“Nelson's taser is in the form of a glove, and it's very convenient.”

  


Richard blinks a few times. “That's a _fucking power glove,_ not a taser.”

  


“It does include a taser function though, not just direct contact. Perhaps a power taser would be more apt, but it doesn't suggest the form. In any case, I'm sure you'll make something well suited to your particular fighting style.”

  


“Yeah,” he keeps ticking away. “And once it's done, I don't know, maybe we should test it in the simulation. The _real_ one, not the training rooms.”

  


“Do you think you're comfortable with that?”

  


Richard nods. “Yeah, I'm ready. I want to see Erlich and Monica, too, so. Yeah, we should go in soon.”


	43. Chapter 43

Richard can feel the weight of his sonic weapon in his pocket as he walks, a silent comfort, all cool, sleek metal and impossibly powerful sound packed into a small, relatively lightweight form. The weight is a comfort, and he’d requested Carla make it feel a bit heavy, just a bit more real, to give him a little more confidence that it will protect him while he’s in the simulation.

  


The walk to Erlich’s is short, about a mile, and he’s not alone, no, Nelson (Nel) is here, and he’s strong, and capable, despite what years in the simulation has led Richard to believe, and having him here is definitely a comfort. Dinesh and Gilfoyle are too, in their own way, but the bat at Gilfoyle’s side and Dinesh’s what, his smoke bombs or whatever they are, they both help, but if anything happens, Richard knows who he’s going to run to first.

  


“I don’t see why _we_ have to go with Richard on this little field trip.” Gilfoyle deadpans a complaint.

  


“Could just get some of those assholes from assault team to escort, it’s not like _we_ can actually do anything to help.”

  


This line of talk is, obviously, not terribly comforting, but Richard takes a few deep breaths because one of ‘those assholes’ from assault team is Nelson, and he _trains_ all of them, so clearly he’s one of the better fighters, right?

  


“Hey, right here,” Nelson lightly shoves Dinesh’s shoulder, “and you know policy. Newbies get a three man escort.”

  


Right.

  


“If Hanneman really does show up between the drop point and Erlich’s it’s not my problem,” Gilfoyle swings his bat once, down to his leg, and back up to his shoulder, “because when shit hits the fan I know I can run faster than you,” he looks to Dinesh, “and that’s really all that matters.”

  


“Fuck you, simulation side everyone runs the same.”

  


“Actually,” Richard can’t stop his correction from blurting out of his mouth, “with longer legs, even if you’re at the same strength level, he can reasonably run faster.”

  


“Don’t fucking side with him when he’s basically calling me Russ bait Richard.”

  


“Right,” Richard won’t admit that he’s worrying just how likely it is that _he’s_ the actual Russ bait, being the newest and in theory the slowest, but something about his face must make it fairly obvious he’s thinking that.

  


“For fuck’s sake Richard,” Dinesh sighs, “it’s only a fucking mile to Erlich’s house and we’ve made this trip thousands of times without Russ ever showing up.”

  


“Right, sure,” he’s not feeling any better, but he can see the house down the block, and as they near the front door he scowls at the streetlight that gave him so much hell for so many months, and takes one more deep breath and quietly taps his ear, “you there?”

  


“Yes,” Donald replies, chirping happily in Richard’s ear, “and I have your questions you prepared earlier in front of me. Would you prefer if I started reading them out to you right away or would you like to have a moment to just talk first?”

  


“Talking first, thanks.” He honestly has no idea how he would’ve remembered all he needs to learn without Donald in his ear to remind him. “can you like, chatter or something,” he whispers, “just to, you know, calm me down or whatever? Until we get there.”

  


“Of course.” He makes no comment about them basically being there, and Richard is grateful. “You know, I believe I could flicker Morse code in the lights, if I knew it of course, and-”

  


Donald chatters away in Richard’s ear, and it helps to bring him back down to baseline as they step onto Erlich’s porch and he swings the door open before they have a chance to knock. “Welcome back boys, Richard, it’s been awhile.”

  


God this is weird.

  


-

  


Richard, and the rest of his group, settle into Erlich’s sitting room, not unlike so many Pied Piper meetings, and with Donald still chatting quietly with Carla in the background Richard can forget for a moment about the simulation, machines, and all the other crazy shit that’s changed about his life. Almost.

  


He puts a hand in his pocket, just to check for his gun again, and the cool metal against his simulated fingers calms him.

  


“Richard,” Donald whispers in his ear while Erlich chats with Dinesh and lights up, “I believe your first question was for Erlich to elaborate on his role? You haven’t said anything in some time, and I wasn’t sure if you were waiting for me to say something.”

  


“Thanks, yeah, uh, Erlich’s getting settled, I guess.” Or high. Apparently simulated high is still a high, so, there’s that. Not much different.

  


“Richard who the fuck are you talking to?”

  


“Don-Donald. Um, I made a comm thing, and we got it up to a fully workable stage.” He taps his ear once, and again when he accidentally shuts down the comm link with Donald. “Shit, you there?”

  


“Yes, but I can make myself scarce if you need. I’m sure Carla’s growing tired of having to share her headset.”

  


“No no, um,” focus, question one. “Erlich, so uh… what the fuck are you?”

  


“Well fuck Richard that’s rather insensitive, and in my _own_ safe zone. I guess nowhere is safe from your social incompetence.” Richard presses his lips together and waits out this little rant. “Don’t let my young, Adonis inspired looks fool you, I am far older than any of you, probably even older than that old coot Belson.”

  


“Hey,” Nelson tosses a pillow at Erlich, not holding back at all, and it makes a satisfying whump as it makes contact, “dude you’re like, sixty or something. You could be _his_ dad.”

  


“So, what, you’re actually a wise old man?” Richard asks, mostly to stop the derailing conversation, and to avoid thinking about Erlich as Gavin’s dad, which is just weirdly uncomfortable for some reason.

  


“I wouldn’t say wise,” Gilfoyle says. "Remember how in the movie they got a smart old lady that takes in orphans or some shit. Well we got stuck with Erlich."

  


“I monitor the collective happiness in the simulation. It’s a big job, answering the concerns of millions.”

  


“You told me it’s basically like getting a shit ton of spam emails,” Dinesh counters, “and once a week you tell Laurie what people are whining about the most, and ignore the rest.”

  


“Hey! I don’t see you omnisciently hearing everyone’s goddamned complaints. Do you know how much people whine about the weather?” Erlich clears his throat. “Anyway, Richard, you’ve come here with these assholes for some information, you’ve come to the right place.”

  


“Yeah, the omniscient HR department would _love_ to answer all your pressing questions, like when can we get a new version of the iphone, because the current one sucks a dick,” Dinesh mutters. “You _really_ had to do this in person?”

  


“Well, maybe I wanted to _see_ some things for myself?”

  


“Richard,” Donald’s back, quietly, “you should get Erlich to elaborate possibly on his safe zone? You don’t have much written down in your notes.”

  


He is so thankful for Donald, seriously. “Why’d you call this a safe zone?”

  


“This place, thanks to me, is a Russ-free zone as long as I see fit. He doesn’t come in here without my say.”

  


“So, the part where he was just… he kept just popping in and making himself at home is, what, something you wanted?”

  


“My normal liaison was otherwise occupied, and he was the only replacement. Trust me, not my first choice.” Erlich takes a big inhale form his bong. “On a normal week, he’s _definitely_ not welcome here.”

  


“Right, so it’s like a force field? Or...”

  


“How the fuck should I know?” Erlich shrugs.

  


“You _just_ said you made it!”

  


“Hey, I said I have a _say_ who gets in and out. I didn’t set the shit up. I find a place, set up camp, i.e. my fucking house, and once I’ve chosen it becomes the new safe zone. It’s fucking _code_ Richard. It comes with the job. This kind of shit _predates_ me, and when, inevitably, someone else has to take over, it’ll be their job to choose.”

  


“Great.” He’d wanted to actually _learn_ some things about how this place worked, maybe ‘see’ some actual code, or understand _how_ it keeps Russ out to replicate it, but he should have known better, because apparently Erlich isn't even really on their side, and he's just, well, fucking around as usual. “Well, since this was apparently a big fucking waste of time, I guess just show me the actual perimeters or something, and we can get going.”

  


Donald pipes up. “Richard, if you wait a few more minutes Monica will-”

  


Erlich’s phone starts buzzing, and he pulls it out and swears. “Motherfuck. This is running too long.”

  


“Don’t tell me you scheduled us on the same day as your damn liaison,” Dinesh groans.

  


“ _I_ wasn’t the one that scheduled this, _you_ guys were, and this is a long standing, weekly meeting, so behave yourselves unless you want all your shit getting back to Laurie.”


	44. Chapter 44

Monica glances into the living room window as she walks up to the front door and sighs when she sees the small crowd of people, “great.” And she mentally prepares to omit this part of the meeting from her report to Laurie. “Honestly we have this meeting every week.”

  


She knocks and after a minute Erlich opens the door and smiles at her. “Monica, good to see you again. You’re looking lovely this evening, as always.”

  


“We have an appointment every week. Why are their people in your living room?”

  


“That’s their fault for neglecting to check my busy schedule.”

  


No, it’s his fault for not saying go home when he had the chance. “How many?”

  


“Four.”

  


“Are you kidding?” Monica steps inside and Erlich shuts the door. “Erlich I have a hard enough time omitting people from my reports as is, and you’re definitely not helping by letting,” she sees Richard and blinks, “oh, I didn’t expect to see you back here.”

  


“Hey Monica?” He’s asking, probably why she’s here rather than her actual name. “Um, so-”

  


“Hold on, don’t say anything yet.” She doesn’t need any more secrets to keep from Laurie, or Russ for that matter. Now to see what Richard even knows to begin with. Best to ask someone that will answer her question with a straight answer. Di-no. Gil-definitely not. E-not even sure why she considered that one. “Nelson, what does he know?”

  


“Uh, Erlich’s job, sort of, and I guess now the part where you’re the liaison.”

  


Based on Richard’s face he hadn’t put two and two together about that, so, almost nothing. “Were any of you going to tell him about me and Erlich?”

  


Richard’s brow creases. “You _and_ Erlich?”

  


“Richard, I’m Laurie’s liaison. I work for Laurie,” and the angry confusion means he gets it, “and so does Erlich.”

  


“ _What_?”

  


“I was getting to that part before you got here,” Erlich crosses his arms, and also probably talks out of his ass, but Monica rolls her eyes quietly.

  


“Sure. Richard, it’s Erlich’s job to make people in the simulation happy. His official role exists to continue everything you’re against.”

  


“What the _fuck_ , wait, so, everyone else here already knew that.” He sits forward and makes a helpless gesture to the room. “So, what, we’re just giving away our-”

  


“Officially, we’re against you, and to Laurie it needs to stay that way. And the less you actually state out loud the better.”

  


“What’s it matter?” He sits back, defeated, looking like Monica called Russ in to come get him before he can even get out of his chair. She can’t believe she promised him coffee some days. “Laurie already knows, right?”

  


“No, and that’s why you need to keep any affirmations to yourself. Laurie isn’t an AI, but...” Monica shakes her head, “feelings and intuition don’t belong in her reports. And is she doesn’t ask about something I don’t offer any information. I can’t do much, but I do what I can to help.”

  


Richard seems at least somewhat placated by her explanation. “None of you thought I should know any of this?”

  


“You’re kidding right?” Dinesh asks. “You aren’t exactly the easiest to break bad news to Richard.”

  


“Plus, no offense to you Richard, but if Laurie found out we were actively helping you we would be in huge trouble, and a lot of danger. We’re actively going against our directives by helping you guys.”

  


Richard opens his mouth, pauses, nods, and looks back at Monica, “so uh… how does Russ know exactly, who’s awake and who isn’t?”

  


“Everyone has a unique code, like a tracker or an ID, and disconnected codes go to a database and sorted according to deaths and awakenings. Normally he has to search it to connect a face to an ID, but Nelson,” he’s been quiet and content in the corner and snaps his head up when she calls out to him, “you being here is really dangerous.”

  


“Naw, we walked over here.”

  


“No, I mean Russ has your ID flagged.” Nelson nods and grimaces, “yeah, Laurie’s been talking about efficiency the last month, so they examined all the records of electrical output, and you peak really bad. Like, at least four times as much, and that’s when you’re jacked in without permission.”

  


“Right so, that’s bad,” Nelson sits back. “Efficiency?”

  


“Laurie’s been trying to figure out of she can replicate what your body does to make you produce so much more of a charge, but in order to do that they need _you_ jacked back in properly.” Monica glances out the window. “Russ might have followed you here.”

  


“Way to chum the waters Nelson,” Gilfoyle kicks at Nelson’s armchair. Nelson doesn’t really seem to notice.

  


“Wait, so what are we supposed to do, wait him out? He’s a fucking AI.” Richard gets up and looks out the window. “He doesn’t need to sleep or anything.”

  


“You’re safe in the house,” Monica explains, “he can’t scan here or enter without Erlich’s permission.”

  


“How does this place… work?” Richard taps the window sill.

  


“Erlich, back when he first volunteered,” Richard whips around, “he volunteered in the early days, and they made you do something right?”

  


“Old ass computer, shitty floppy goes in, program runs, keep in mind most of this shit is outdated and frankly, symbolic in nature, but it initiated my little oracle role and established my little safe haven.” Erlich stands close and Monica takes a step to the left. “They ran the actual shit, I just had to choose a place and signal them, aka the floppy.”

  


“But you don’t know the actual code, right?”

  


“None of us do. Laurie might, but the easiest thing would be to isolate this house’s code or just generate your own from scratch.” Monica points to the other room. “And if you’re done asking questions, I really need to get my job done before Laurie sends Russ to check in on me. She’s been doing that recently again ever since you woke up, Richard.”

  


“Um, I guess...” he claps his hands once, “how’d you get here?”

  


“I...” she sighs, “I was just getting a job, like all of you when you weren’t awake. I thought I was going to be an intern at Raviga. Right after I accepted the position they explained the truth, and the fun little part about how the machines in the real world monitor my pod 24/7. If Russ or Laurie found out I help you guys I have… seconds, if that.”

  


“Shit, okay,” Richard nods. “I’ll be careful. We’ll, I’m sure it’s all of us.”

  


“Thank you.” Monica takes one more look outside. “When you leave, Nelson, make sure you have that power glove ready. Something in the electrical pulse disrupts one of his .exe functions, and they haven’t developed a workaround better than just letting him regenerate and redeploy.”

  


“Right,” Nelson nods. He’s bouncing one foot, and Monica knows he’s probably gotten himself worked up, but she knows he’s better off knowing he’s been flagged than assuming things are still fine. This might be the final push to keep him out of the simulation for good.

  


“Good luck you guys, seriously. I’d love to see you guys wipe that creepy smile off his face.”


End file.
